


Sons of September

by bright73



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Abuse, Case Fic, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Religious Conflict, Suspense, Terrorism, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-13
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bright73/pseuds/bright73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some cases just hit too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Sunhawk and Mb_tech_net

_  
**Prologue**   
_

 

He sank to his haunches in the dark alley, surrounded by over-filled dumpsters, flies and a reek of cat urine and doves' spilling. The hand was relatively small and pale, despite its swollen state as it peeked out from under a mountain of garbage stuffed into dirty, happily colored plastic bags and leaking paper sachets. The hand looked like one of a young teenager and that made him grit his teeth. He wondered who had let this young person down that bad that it was even possible for him or her to be found dead in an alley like this one? Who had let this happen? His jaw tensed and he had to regulate his breathing to calm down and not rise and kick the plastic bags out of the way to drag the body out. There was no dignity in this kind of death, it was the ugliest kind possible, any way you looked at it. Were it an OD, a suicide or a murder, it all boiled down to the same; it shouldn't happen to such a young person. It should probably not happen at all like this. But the fact was that someone had let this young person down in the worst way possible. Leaving him or her under a heap of garbage. He was just so damned tired of seeing this, this waste of human potential and betrayal of decency.

“You ok, Nick?”

He rose and nodded in Warrick's direction. Captain Brass, standing behind the tall CSI, was watching him intently. He grinned, flashing them what they expected to see. “419s really should be labeled with an expiration day; LN and LS.”

”Huh?” Brass wrinkled his brown.

“Lemons needed and lemons superfluous. Just so one knows.” He looked back at the DB, now finally able to look at it like it was a mere object for investigation. “We better get this photographed and moved so Super-Dave can take a better look. Someone did pronounce, right?”

“Kind of obvious this one, a LN for yours truly.” Brass smirked. “Must have been here for days and the upstanding citizens didn't react before the stench got to them. I guarantee that a couple of these fine folks have stepped over this DB on numerous occasions.”

“Just what I ordered.” Warrick retorted dryly. “Check out the amount of flies here, having a Vegas Mardi Gras. I hope they shit on the plates of the good folks around here.”

Nick cast a glance in his partner's direction. He was, as usual, hiding his utter disgust behind witty remarks and sarcasm. His remark did make his stomach clench; insects were something he'd rather not connect with on a personal level. That part he gladly handed over to his boss, Gil Grissom, the bug-man.

“I thought Griss had a similar case a couple of weeks ago?” He asked the sturdy detective. “Why didn't he take this one?”

“Has a seminar for the Cadettes in the morning. Needed to find his lecture notes. It's not certain he won't show up when he hears about the fantastic crawly material around here. Told me you two should start on it, he might take the case back so you better follow protocol on this one and not mess up.”

“When did I ever mess anything up, Jim?” Warrick asked gruffly, loading his camera with a new memory-card.

“Want me to make a list, Brown?” The detective's eyebrows rose to an inquisitive arch before he turned on his heels and walked away.

Warrick merely grinned and shook his head.

Nick remained looking at the hand, transfixed. Flies walking over the swollen skin, laying eggs in the crevices, making the body theirs. Marking their habitat like the body hadn't once belonged to a person, someone that had dreams and fears, just like anybody else. Now that was all gone and what was left was being reclaimed by nature; a cruel but inescapable fate.

“You ready, bro?”

Nick snapped out of his personal twilight zone of insects crawling over skin and shrugged his shoulders. The question brought him back to the alley, the stench and the grimness. It only took him a second to bury the emotions in the safe place, he'd been perfecting ever since he'd been pulled out for the box. He was used to it by now; he'd learned not to relate, to shut off. His grin never far away, ready to be pulled out when needed. “Never for scenes like this one, but we better get going, following that protocol.”

“Got lemons to spare for when we get back? Like a truck-load of them?” Warrick muttered, adjusting the collar of his west .

And Nick smiled; following the protocol.

 

 _  
**Chapter 1**   
_

 

Warrick hesitated before walking into Doc Robbins' domain, watching the drawn face of his partner, wondering. He wasn't sure if it was the triple-shift or the scene they'd left an hour ago. After marking probably hundreds of stinking plastic bags, as possible evidence. He still felt the stench of decomposing and fecal matter clinging, to him despite the lemons they'd used between them. He longed to take Nick home and have a reciprocal thorough back-scrub in the privacy of their own bathroom. He longed to get Nick home to ask what the fuck was going on with him? He had barely spoken a word at the scene, only grunting mono-syllabic responses while his hands visibly shook while writing the field reports. At Warrick's concerned glances he'd just shrugged and smiled that fake smile, that might con everybody else, but never him. He'd learned to interpret the signs like a pro. And something was bothering Nick.

He pulled the door open, letting Nick enter first, only to almost trip over him as the man stopped dead in his tracks.

He was just about to give Nick a push onwards and a quip about needing to plan his breaks better when his eyes fell on Catherine Willows and Gil Grissom, hovering over Doc Robbins sitting in his chair, a stack of papers in his hand.

Nick cast a questioning glance over his shoulder, obviously wanting to know if Warrick knew something he didn't. Warrick shook his head and stepped around Nick to approach the trio at the well-lit desk.

“Hey guys,” he greeted.“You leaving the dirty works to the underdogs and snatching the fun parts? What's up?”

“Never,” Catherine waved her free hand in dismissal. “Just happened to be here and get my report. Curiosity got the better of me, that's all. Heard you two took a dirt-dive.” She grinned, wafting the air away from under her nose.

“Some-one's gotta do the real work around here,” Warrick shot back.

“Right.” Cath rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “Hey Nick, what's up?”

Nick appeared at his side, hands tucked deep into the lab-coat's pockets. “You mean besides Rick's smell-index that's bordering on intolerable?”

Warrick glared at the shorter man. “Hey, Romeo, I'd change my socks before yappin' if I were you.”

Gil Grissom finally lifted his eyes from the paper and acknowledged their existence. “Every smell tells us important facts about a case, thought you two knew that.”

“Please,” Nick flared off a full-dimpled grin in Grissom's direction. “This time them odor-facts almost knocked me out.”

Grissom quirked an eye-brow at his blatant dismissal of forensic knowledge.

Doc Robbins chuckled when he rose to his feet and walked over to the metal table, unfolding the white sheet and exposing what had Warrick smiling to repress the gag-reflex. That crime scene was one he'd remember for a long time. A bloated, rat-bitten DB dumped in a week's worth of filth was not an everyday occurrence, not even in Vegas. With a glance over at Nick, he saw him tighten his fists in the lab-coat pocket and set his jaw.

“Well, as you noticed on the scene; this is a young male, age-range approximately between 14 and 16. Difficult to pinpoint the age exactly, he's short and relatively small for his apparent age. The x-rays will tell us more exactly. Eurasian descent, probably resident in the States, according to the dental-work done. He had braces once. Teeth are good though, should be enough to ID him, if the fingerprints don't give a hit, I managed to get two off him. The rest was gotten by the rodents. CoD is intoxication. Ethyl to be exact, blood level is 3.6, I guess that's all he could take up before death occurred.“

“But there was no vomit on the scene,” Nick looked at Doc Robbins with surprise. “Wouldn't there have been vomiting before he reached that level?”

“He most likely didn't drink it voluntarily, injuries on the larynx show that someone stuck something down his throat. Probably a garden hose. There's severe bruising.” Robbins replied. “That's probably how the liquor went in.”

“So no accidental or intentional OD, but plain old-fashioned murder?” Warrick sighed, seeing another long shift ahead of him.

“Would anybody even try intentional suicide with alcohol?” Catherine asked, looking disgusted. “Easier ways to go with more efficient drugs.”

“But it's still a legal drug,” Grissom pointed out. “Easiest to get your hands on.”

“I'd call it intentional and prolonged for some,“ Doc Robbins continues. “But I doubt that was the case here. According to, what I presume, are ligature marks around his ankles and wrists, he was probably tortured ante-mortem. Gotta check under the UV yet. He suffered anal penetration with a significant amount of tearing. Sent the SAEK for analysis, but I found no signs of sperm, probably penetrated with an object.”

Warrick heard Nick make a quick, pained inhalation. He turned to look at the man by his side. His jaw was clenched tightly shut, shoulders tensed and his breathing had become fast and shallow. He noticed Cath cast a glance in Nick's direction, growing concern evident on her face.

Warrick wondered what he was missing.

“Dumped as expected,” Grissom noted. “Any idea on time of death?”

“According to stage of decomp, with regards to the environmental factors; I'd say 4 days, maybe 5. Histology will get you the exact time if the bugs don't. Now, go ID the boy. You'll get the rest when it's good and ready.” Robbins finished by pulling the sheet over the body and clapping shut his binder.

Warrick reached for the sheets with lifted finger-prints that Grissom was holding, sighing as he realized this was going to be a quadruple.

“No, you two go home, I'm on this one.” His boss peered over his glasses.

“Why?”

The question sounded like a shot with its harshness. Surprised, Warrick turned to Nick. His face was blank, not a trace of any emotion visible. But his eyes were almost black and the tone of voice not the usual friendly drawl.

Grissom looked genuinely surprised. “You've been pulling a lot of over-time last week, you need your rest before you both fall asleep on your feet.”

“That the real reason?” Nick asked in a low, contained voice.

Grissom looked over to Catherine, who was looking intently at Nick. Warrick noticed again her overt concern; her hand clasping the binder she had been holding the entire time, so hard it bent at the middle.

“Yes Nick, that's the reason. I don't want anything to be over-looked because the pair of you can't hold your eyes open. Go home, get some rest and come back in two days. I'll get Greg and Sara to help and maybe this case will be solved by then.”

“You didn't solve the other one, did you?” Nick asked with his voice still kept low and under tight control.

Warrick held his breath at the apparent tug-of-war going on.

“You think they are connected?” Grissom asked. “That boy died from multiple contusions.”

“And had the word “queer” spray-painted on him,” Nick said, meeting his boss' eyes dead on. “And dumped on Boulder in a heap of trash.”

Grissom cast a glance in Warrick's direction. “That doesn't seem to be enough to indicate a connection.”

Warrick looked away not to be drawn into the middle, resting his eyes on Catherine who was worrying at her lower lip.

“Enough of a connection for me.”

“Nick,” Grissom started.

“I want this case.”

Warrick almost jumped at the steely tone in Nick's voice. That request tolerated no objections.

“Nick, you sure about this?” Catherine asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Think I can't handle it?” He turned his eyes on Cath and Warrick knew just the look he was sending her.

Catherine shook her head, looking down. “No, I know you can. It's just that I'm not sure you should.”

Now both he and Grissom let their gazes wander between the two.

“Why's that, Cath?” Nick's voice was now honeyed, his gaze never leaving her.

Cath looked away, her gaze wandering over in their direction. Looking at them both in turn, like she was pleading for an ally. But when she was met with only questioning eyes, she looked back at Nick. “Just - be careful, Nick.”

“I will,” Nick replied curtly and reached for the fingerprints Grissom was still holding. Without a word, Grissom handed them over and with a polite 'Thank you' Nick walked out, never looking back.

“Not until you've gotten some rest, Nick. Hand the fingerprints in and go home.” Grissom raised his voice to the fleeing back. The only reply he got was a raised hand in acknowledgment.

“That's an order that goes for you too, Warrick. Go home, both of you. It's been 4 days already, another one won't matter in this case.“

Tired blue eyes met his, and he read the order loud and clear enough to have no other option than nodding and turn to slide out the door.

Before the door shut behind him, he heard Cath's “Gil, I need to talk to you.”

 

 

The jaw-clenching had given Nick a headache that wouldn't lessen, making him uncharacteristically cranky, and feeling guilty for being such a prick.. With the fingerprints clasped in his hand, the other coming up to rub at his temples, he walked the well-known route to Mandy's lab. He hoped Cath wouldn't go spilling something he'd more or less been forced to tell her. But he trusted Cath, it had been several years ago the case, that had him all riled up, was solved and the perpetrators sent to trial. Cath never mentioned it again, neither did he. But he could feel her eyes on him when he had cases like this one. Sometimes he wondered if what he had told her concerned her more than it did him? Pity was the last thing he needed, except for having the tale telegraphed all over the department. He'd decided it was over and dealt with, and that was it.

The sound of footsteps behind him had him pull the fingers from his temple and turn his head, just to let Rick know he was fine. He hadn't missed the glances back at the morgue. Warrick was far from stupid, he picked up on things, and this time Nick really didn't want to get into a discussion.

“Listen, bro, I know. Just gonna hand this over to Mandy and be out.”

The tall, lanky man caught up with him, the green eyes squinted and the features tired and worn. It had been a long couple of shifts, and it showed.

“You look like hell, Nick,” Warrick said as they traversed the hallway to Mandy's lab. Opening the door, Nick found it empty, no sign of the tech. “Great, now I gotta go find her, “ he mumbled, mostly to himself.

Warrick leaned, from hip to shoulder, onto the door-frame, watching him intently. “Y'know that's why we still have these rudimentary communication means like pens a paper. Shocking, huh?”

Nick couldn't help but smile at the quip. “Yeah, yeah, I'll leave a note. Happy?”

“Ecstatic”

Warrick sounded so tired and Nick's heart ached for him when he realized that he, in fact, was leaning up against the frame to not fall down from sheer exhaustion. He pulled a blank paper from the printer and grabbed the pen from his shirt-pocket. He kept it short, close to cryptic, but he knew Mandy would get it. It was fairly routine, but he needed her to go through all available databases to get an ID. And he wanted it fast, like everybody else.

“Done bro. Now let's get goin', your place or mine?”

“Yours is closer,” Warrick groaned, stretching his arms. “And you've got that fancy dryer.”

”So you're just tagging along because I'm equipped,” Nick leered. “ I'll just stop by the grocery store and pick some things up, you go ahead.”

“You sure?” Warrick pushed his tall body off his temporary support and walked by his side. Shoulder to shoulder they made it to the locker room. They sank heavily down on the bench for a while, locking gaze just briefly, gathering themselves to try and function in the world without looking like something the cat dragged in.

“You need a shave and I'm out of shaving-cream,” Nick grinned. “And the milk in the fridge probably started its own chemical experiments by now. I'll just pick up some essentials.”

He rose, feeling his legs ache at the movement and opened Warrick's locker, pulling his wind-breaker out and throwing it at the man sitting on the bench. Opening his own locker he grabbed the plastic with their soiled clothes, and dropped it at his bud's side with a smirk.

Warrick made a disgusted face and Nick chuckled, pulling his light jacket out and closing the doors. “Either that or you go shopping, your pick.”

“Ok, boss, swing by Xhiang's to pick up some food, will ya? Y'know - the usual.””

“I'm nothing if not dependable,” Nick grinned, nudging Warrick to his feet and pushing him out the locker room.

“The expression says 'predictable', bro.” Warrick stretched his long legs, squinting against the sun. It wasn't usual they clocked out at 4. P.M.

“Same difference. You just drive right home and try to keep 'em greens open. Don't wanna find you snoring at the kitchen table. I've had enough bad scenes for today. And even worse, who'd do the laundry?” Nick fished up his key and peered at Warrick. “With softener added this time or I swear I'll do something drastic.”

The corridor was empty when they filed out to the parking lot. It felt safe to continue the bickering all the way out Nick grinned at the thought of what Hodges would do if he ever found out that the two of them were knocking boots. They'd never live that down.

“What you grinnin' 'bout, boss?” Warrick asked, casting a glance at him when they went for their respective cars.

“Just thinking about Hodges,” Nick teased. “I wonder what he'd do if he knew. You wanna bet he'd have the word out in under 5? Seasoned with meaty rumors.”

Warrick rolled his eyes as he reached his car, opened the car door and slid in. Then he rolled down the window and grinned in his direction. “Who taught you to drive such a hard bargain, bro? I know it wasn't me.”

He didn't bother answering, just chuckled and put the key in the ignition to start the engine. He waited for Warrick to pull out before he followed Warrick out of the parking lot, hanging on his tail until they were a block away and he turned right to get to the grocery store just another four blocks away. The sun was beating down, it was one of those late, hot September days, right before fall set in. Which would explain all the flies at the scene. He groaned, decisively steering his thoughts away, really not needing to remember the particulars right now. He turned to the mini-market parking lot, radio on loud to keep his thoughts at bay. Something about the case seemed to be constantly nagging at the back of his mind. A shadow in the corner of his peripheral vision had him instinctively swerve away and hit the brakes hard. A group of kids on skateboards, coming up from between the row of parked cars, materialized at his left. He missed the one clad in all black by a couple of inches. They laughed and gave him the finger, before they ran away. Faces hid in hoods, skateboards flung over their shoulders.

Adrenaline flared through him, the instant anger a the stupidity of such a game made him want to get out of the car, hunt them down and read them the riot act. His felt his jaw clench again, an acute wave of pain emanating from the back of his head, throbbing in his temples. But when he tried to remove his hands from the steering wheel, he just wasn't able to. His hands were glued to the wheel and his legs started shaking in tiny near-imperceptible tremors. He looked down on his right leg, surprised at the sense of loss of control. His headache picking up a few notches. Then it all rolled over him. The smell, the position of the body, Doc Robbins' words, the terrified face of the young man on the slab and the taste of death in his mouth.

All he was able to do was steer into an empty lot, shut the engine off and lean his head onto the steering-wheel and try to remember how to breathe. To pull in air to the rhythm of the bass on the radio, keep it in and then blow it out, all while his heart seems to have a frenzied tango lesson in his chest. Remembering being slowly suffocated, chest aching, air too oxygen starved to do him any good. He forced himself to hold his breath, keeping the air in his lungs a while longer, like forcing it to function as meant to. He exhaled and waited, despite the panic clawing at him, before inhaling again. Repeating the pattern until his heart found a rhythm that prevented it from jumping out his rib-cage. His cell-phone went off but his fingers were still too tense to be moved from the steering wheel; he was forced to let it ring.

The radio changed beat and he had to rely on his own sense of rhythm to regulate his breathing and finally his fingers loosened the death-grip. Fatigue rushed over him in a giant wave that left him slumped in a heap of shivers.

When he finally was capable of lifting his head from the steering wheel, he noticed that 45 minutes had passed. He slid out of the car and stood on slightly shivering legs. His cell went off again and he imagined a very pissed Warrick at the other end. Still unsure about voice he declined from answering and set route to the grocery store.

His hands were still shaking.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't start getting edgy until half an hour had passed and Nick still wasn't answering. He'd probably just forgotten his cell in the car. When he called the third time and got no answer, he started to get pissed. He wouldn't cop to being scared, not him, Warrick Brown, suaveness personified. Still, he checked the clock every five minutes while loading the washer, emptying the chemical hazard, previously known as skimmed milk and a bowl of old Cesar salad, out of the fridge. Then he picked up Nick's mail, sorted the bills out from the junk and put them in the holder by the phone.

Then he took a beer out of the fridge, holding it for a while, sensing the coolness and debating with himself if he ought to call again. Or call Brass? But if anything had happened to Nick they'd have called him . They weren't out as a couple but they were on each others cells under ICOE. Someone would have called him. It wasn't until he was halfway through his second can and close to boiling over, that he sat down by the kitchen table. Realizing he was behaving like a bad caricature of a wife. He really needed his head examined.

He emptied the can, trying not to look at the clock and simmered slowly, over Nick-fucking-Stokes not answering his cell, keeping things from him and most of all; making him starve half to death.

When the key turned in the lock, he had almost buried his man and written the eulogy.

He rose to his feet, watching Nick struggle with two grocery bags, a 6-pack of beers and the Xhiang-sachet under his arm.

“Sorry it took so long,” Nick said, toeing his shoes off before walking past him and placing the bags on the counter. Peeling off his jacket and throwing it on the chair, he busied himself with arranging the groceries, neatly and meticulously.

The clear avoidance was just pissing Warrick off even more, but he decided to keep quiet and not start on the 3rd degree interrogation, he'd planned a while ago. The state he was in right now was like an insurance policy, to screw something up royally, if he opened his trap.

“Hey, you gotta be starving. Go on, I'll just put this away and -”

“What it is you're not telling me, Nick?” He hadn't intended to sound quite as accusatory, he hadn't intended to speak at all. But there was something about Nick that was just not right. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Nick pausing, just for a fraction of a second, then continuing to stuff the beers into the fridge. One by one, while he refused to turn and meet with his eyes. It was like he were totally dismissing him. The alarm went off somewhere in the back of his head; loud and insistent.

“Nick?”

“Warr', I don't get what you're getting at. Would you chow down before it gets cold?”

That's when he noticed Nick's hand tremble. It was just a slight shiver, close to imperceptible when he bent and reached for plates. Nick tensed his hand, making the plate lie still in his palm, while he went for the cutlery. Never looking at Warrick, not even one glance.

“Want me to nuke the egg-rolls?”

Innocence, that fucking innocence he hid behind at times. It had Warrick steaming. “No, I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

He was coming off exactly as pissed as he had feared he would. Not exactly at Nick, but at his refusal to spill. That guardedness that drove him up the wall at times. That deep need for privacy that resulted in shutting him totally out. It was like playing Poker blind-folded and with all your cash, and the Roley, in the pot.

“Nothings going on.”

Still with his back to Warrick, he set the table, placing the glasses and plates at opposite ends. Like nothing was wrong, nothing at all. Despite his ashen paleness, his shivering hands and the stance that spoke of imminent implosion. Warrick had been aware that something was up Nick's ass ever since they left the morgue and the damned bastard was denying it?

“Lemme get this straight, Nicky. You've told Cath what's up your butt right now and she's told Griss but you can't tell me? Fucking big of you, bro.”

Nick spun around so fast that Warrick took an instinctive step back.

“She what?” Nick barked, his hands forming fists. “She told Griss? She had no right! What the-? I can't believe this, I can't freakin' believe this!” He was simmering. His eyes a narrow slit from the rage and indignation, coursing through him. Nostrils flaring as he stormed out of the kitchen, into the living-room. Stopping at the windows, pulling the blinds shut with a harsh snap. “I can't believe this,” he repeated and leaned on his hands on the window-pane, head hanging and breath running fast.

Warrick followed, watching the reaction perplexed. The room was dark, the ventilator humming softy, spreading cool air into the room that suddenly felt like a pressure-chamber. “Nicky?”

“She had no right! I wouldn't have told her if she hadn't threatened to pull me off the case!”

Warrick held his breath, not getting what would make Nick sound like that. He sounded broken; defeated like he'd lost something vital, something he'd never get back.

“Tell me, Nick. This case has you all tied up in knots. What is it Cath knows? Why can't you tell me? What the fuck can be so bad you can't spill the beans? It's me y'know, not some fucking stranger.” He watched Nick's head sink deeper, his hands holding on to the wooden pane.

“Coz' it's nothing important.”

“Don't give me crap, Nick. What it is? Why can't I know? You have someone on the side? That it? Just tell me and I'll walk right out if that's what you want.” He was losing patience, it was like dragging something out of a five-year old.

“Because I don't want you to look at me differently. You'll just look at me differently, I don't want that, Rick. I don't need your pity. I've had enough of that to last me a life-time.”

That was something Warrick hadn't excepted, and the alarm went off full flair. “Jesus Nicky, you're starting to scare me here. I'm asking you coz' I fucking love you and I need to know, get that into that thick head of yours, once and for all.”

Nick leaned his brow against the blinds, hands wrapped around the window frame, like if to hold himself up. His voice was barely above a whisper when he started talking.

“I can't remember all details, I don't wanna remember all details. I remember it was dark in the room, it was late and I was supposed to be sleeping but I was reading with a flashlight under the cover. I always did that when I was alone and Mom and Dad were out on some of their functions. I heard her open the door and saw her coming in, she didn't even turn on the lights. She just let the door stay ajar since there was light in the hallway. I remember that, it was warm and I was sleeping in my under-wear only. The light seeped in from the hallway, and I kept hoping it was all some kind of weird dream. I never looked at her face, there wasn't enough light and I didn't want to know. Her hands were cold, I remember that much, and crying, I remember crying like a wuss. She told me she knew this game, this fun game. She -,” he paused, drawing a deep breath.

“Jesus Nicky,” Warrick wanted to scream at him to shut up, that he really didn't want to hear this, that it was all a lie. Instinctively he knew what was being said between the lines, no words needed to convey it. He wasn't even able to handle words right now, he just needed this all to really be a dream, a lie. Not something that actually happened, not to Nick.

“She was a last minute baby-sitter. She told me that only bad boys did what I had done and that I'd go to hell if I ever told anybody. It's all kind of a blur after that. All I remember is sitting in my bed afterward, waiting for my Mom to get home. Wondering if she'd be able to tell and hate me for it?”

Warrick felt like throwing up, hitting the wall to pieces, tear the blinds down and holler his rage to the world. “Did they get her? Is she rotting in jail somewhere?”

“I never told anybody, not until Cath forced me to, since I was going off the deep end on a case.”

“You never told? Nick, what the -, why?” He felt like he was getting punched in the pit of his stomach, over and over. A fucking kid? Who'd ever do that to a kid? Fucking perverts!

“I was only nine, going to hell, remember? And I was the dependable one, the one that always tried to please, never caused troubles. I was the youngest, Warr. Mon and Dad had enough trouble with all the others, they didn't need me causing trouble too. There was no way of telling what I'd done. How could I?”

“What you'd -?” He took a step forward, needing desperately to touch Nick, fearing that he'd explode if he didn't have anything to hold on to, something to ground him. He was close enough to the drawn shoulders and bowed head to literally feel the tension in his lover's body. “Nicky, Jesus, I don't know what to - Nicky, I -.”

“I just don't want you to look at me differently, Rick.”

Nick's voice was thick, trembling and instinctively Warrick threw his arms around him, pulling him into a bear hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the chest, slowly easing him away from the window and down to sit on the soft carpet by the coffee-table. He folded Nick into his lap, holding on and rocking him, slowly, back and forth, not entirely sure if he was consoling Nick, or himself. The rage at the woman, a faceless, nameless woman was making him tremble. A thousand questions ran through his mind, pointing in one direction; he wanted to find the woman, the monster, and pull her teeth out slowly, one by one and teach her that you just didn't do things to one of his friends. His lover! Nick was all his and nobody should ever dare lay a hand on him. He felt he was going out of his mind and had to swallow when an enraged sob threatened to escape him. He closed his eyes to stop the images of Nick in that bed, scared and alone, totally helpless. All that mattered now was holding Nick, like a life-line, his grip on reality seemed to consist of the man in his embrace.

“I'm sorry,” Nick said in that same broken voice. “I'm sorry, Rick.”

He had no words at the moment, the choking rage dissipated and a deep sorrow invaded him, leaving him limp and powerless. How long had Nick blamed himself? He should know better, probably did, but judging by the words he had spoken it seemed he still carried the guilt somewhere deep inside. Nick, who was a pillar of strength without even realizing it, and now he was saying he was sorry? His man, asking for forgiveness, for what he had no idea. That teared his heart out. “I love you, Nicky.” His voice was raw from the emotions raging inside. Nick didn't say a word and it scared him, scared him more than anything had in a long time. He needed some reaction out of his man, not this silence and stillness. Opening his eyes he saw the clenched fists in Nick's lap.

He reached down to open them up, slowly unbending the fingers from their death-grip. He flinched at the marks of nails on the palms of Nick's hands. Angry red marks pressed deep into the sensitive skin. He gripped the hands, holding them in his, not wanting to see the signs.

“It's all right, Nicky.” He promised, not recognizing his own voice “ Nothings changed baby, nothings changed. It's all right, baby.” He kept repeating the same mantra, mostly for himself because Nick sat still, letting himself be rocked, but never relaxing entirely.

 

“Cath won't tell,” Warrick continued, needing to hear somebody say something, because the silence was killing him. “She didn't say she had something to tell Griss, she said she needed to talk to him. Might be about anything, I just happened to hear it before the door closed, not sure what it was about. Might be about her case, or maybe she just told him to lay off and let us handle the case. Cath won't tell. Nick, you know Cath, she's kept it silent for this long, won't tell now.”

And finally, the tension in Nick's body lessened gradually and he sank into the embrace, leaning up against Warrick's chest.

“Just don't want you to look at me differently,” Nick repeated quietly. “It was a long time ago, I've dealt with it. I hope you can deal with it too. And I need it to stay between us.”

“It will and I am, Nicky, I am.”

He buried his face at the crook of Nick's neck, still rocking him slowly back and forth, holding on to his hands until Nick was totally relaxed.

Neither spoke for a while, they just sat there, intertwined, until Nick moved to sit up straighter. He groaned slightly and craned his head to look at Warrick.

“Dude, we're sitting on the floor and you're holding me like I'm ready to vaporize or something. My ass is starting to hurt.” The tone was lighter now, relieved.

“Don't forget bawling like a baby and spilling my guts about how I, the chick-word, y'know.” His voice sounded muffled as he spoke without looking up.

“Glad you're dealing, bro.”

He had to laugh at that, burying his face deeper in the crook of Nick's neck. Shaking his head at the dry wit of his man.

“C'mon man, you need to eat. When your blood-sugar drops you get cranky and weepy, “ Nick teased. “And I forgot to put the ice-cream in the freezer. Better go wipe it off the counter.”

“Fresco's Butter Pecan?”

“Dependable, remember?”

“That's why I called.”

“I know.”

 

 

Watching Warrick chow down the food, he wondered if he'd live to regret telling him what he'd just told him. It wasn't something you laid on the plate of your lover and told him to digest it. If Warrick had told him something like that, he wasn't sure how he would have reacted. Still, he was asking Warrick to not let it get to him. Maybe he was just asking too much? He had the nagging feeling the entire confession was rattling Warrick more than the fact that he, had to spill his beans, humiliated himself. Somethings just needed to be left alone and buried. This was one to those.

The fact that Rick seemed a tad out of it was confirmed when he shoved down the steamed carrots, a vegetable he detested vividly. Now he just shoveled fork after fork in, his eyes never taking in what he was eating. Not that Warrick had ever been particularly picky, as long as he got his fast carbs, but carrots? That really was the famous thin red line for Rick.

Nick smiled fondly, letting his gaze rest on the tall lanky man. His shirt was open to the navel as usual, exposing a very fine chest. Rick had, on occasions, had a couple of lab techs almost walk into walls, when appearing. He'd gotten blinded on occasions himself. The cleavage just made him want to place his palms on the pectorals, feel his man's heat and make out. He shook his head, cleaning up the last on his plate.

He had considered Warrick was so out of his league; lean suaveness and street-smarts, combined with a sharp as nails, logical kind of intelligence. And hot, so hot he literally lit fires. He couldn't believe Rick was his friend and lover. Warrick could have anyone and had chosen him, the wuss and screw-up. He so wished and hoped the thing he'd just told Rick wouldn't come between them and change things. He needed Rick, their butting heads and rivalry when it came to work. They might have falling outs over cases, even discuss them loudly and intensely, but when the chips went down, he always knew Rick would be there, no questions asked.

He peered at the man, reading the sports section, probably calculating odds and making bets in his head. “Rick, you know that the chick-word goes for me to, don't cha?”

Warrick looked up from the paper, letting it fall to the table. “Let's not have another one of those moments, bro.”

Nick grinned. “You're aware you have a high content of steamed carrots in your bloodstream right now, don't cha? How'ya feelin'?”

Warrick looked down to his plate, baffled for once in his lifetime. Then he made a face of disgust and pushed the empty plate away. “I'm gonna get acute carrotititis, hand me the anti-dote!”

Nick chuckled and rose to grab the Butter Pecan out of the freezer. “I'll still love you when you're fat and keep misplacing your dentures, so dig in.”

“Don't lay it on too thick, man.”

“Zip it!”

 

It was him, Warrick without fears, who woke up in total panic that night. Sweaty and tearing at the sheets. This time he had been looking for him all over the nursery, hearing pained inhales just under the surface, but finding nothing. Frantically he had dug the earth, calling out, begging to have some further signs of life, something to help him find the man. He'd been hollering 'Where the fuck are you?' at the top of his voice. All he had dug up were maggots. Then he'd found himself with Robbins', Nick on the table and Robbins telling him how he had been violated to death. He found himself not understanding the words at the end of Doc's long monologue. Nick's body swelling grotesquely before his eyes, all while he was whimpering to be let out. Nobody had listened when he tried to explain that Nick was still alive, didn't they hear him? Was he the only one hearing the pained pleas? He'd gripped Nick's shoulders, shaking him hard but Nick was cold to his touch, and morphing into a kid, grasping his wrist, pleading for forgiveness. “For what Nicky, for what? What the fuck you asking of me, bro, I don't get it? Kid-Nick kept repeating his pleas, not to let this change things and he promised, over and over again, until kid-Nick somehow got a hold of his gun, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Doc Robbins' lab-coat turned a crimson red and he cursed and said it'd never come out. Warrick watched the headless body reach out to touch his shoulder, calling his name.

“Fuckin' son of a bitch,” he cursed when he opened his eyes to Nick's continuous calling of his name and tried to brush away the hand shaking his shoulder.

“Warrick, c'mon, open your eyes!” Strong hands gripped his wrists, trying to keep him steady.

“What the -?” He dragged himself up to a sitting position, cursing under his breath. The bedside lamp was lit, the sheets twisted around his legs and Nick sat on his knees by his side, watching him with a furrowed brow.

“Oh, for fuck's -,” he trailed off, shaking his head to get rid of the last vestiges of the cobwebs.

“You ok, bro? Carrots chasing yah?” Nick draped an arm over his shoulders, grounding him. His hand coming to rest on his heaving chest, right over his thundering heart. A shiver ran through Warrick at the welcomed, possessive gesture.

“Yeah,” he nodded. Calmed by the touch, he hid his face in his hands. Fucking headless body wouldn't leave him alone. That hadn't been kid-Nick, it had been the full-grown body he knew every inch of.

“Man, you're shivering. Hold on.” Nick climbed out of bed, with a last glance at Warrick. Warrick cursed under his breath, images still vivid behind his closed eyelids. Nick returned with a glass of water and a towel that he draped over his shoulders.. It wasn't until then he realized he was covered in cold sweat, shivers still running down his spine. Nick wiped his brow with the towel, asking if he was sure he was all right.

He just nodded and Nick pushed a glass of water under his nose. He drank, surprised at how dry his throat was.

“You were screaming, Rick. Scared the crap outta me. One of these days we're gonna have Brass on our door-step, asking what's going on.” Nick sat hunched, resting his knees up against the bed-frame, watching him with concern.

“Shit.”

“You better come bail me out. Coz' I ain't copping to a thing.” He smiled tentatively at Warrick. “Want me to get you some more Butter Pecan?” Taking the glass from him, Nick rested it on the bed-side table, reaching up to cup a hand around his neck. Warrick knew he was checking for a fever and he grinned, thoroughly embarrassed for putting on a veritable freak-show, for no reason. And not for the first time either.

He shook his head, finally having landed fully in reality. “Nah, get your butt into bed, that's all I need.” Pulling Nick back into bed he rolled him to his side, inching closer to spoon the shorter man, needing to feel him breathe.

Nick shook his head. “ I think your sugary spells are wreaking havoc with you, man. Seems to send you trippin'. Watch out or you'll be the poster-boy for one of Greg's girly magazines. Male sensitivity, y'know.” His man pulled the covers up, tucking him in.

That was just a tad too much. Warrick pulled him back down, hard. “Nick.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop it.”

Nick chuckled drowsily into the pillow, but it took its sweet time before he fell asleep. Warrick waited, counted the breaths and tried to fight the images of Nick's brain all over Doc Robbins' white lab-coat.

The only thing that helped, was tucking his nose to the nape of Nick's neck and breathing him in.

He felt like he'd just fallen asleep when Nick's cell-phone went off.


	3. Chapter 3

Warrick looked at the printouts, spread over the table. He just wasn't able to understand why Nick felt so strongly that the two incidents were connected? There was really nothing distinct in common with the two, except the fact that the DBs were male, in their teens and they'd both been found dumped near a dumpster. They found DBs in dumpsters frequently enough not make assumptions that every dumped body was somehow connected. CoD was different, the geography, was all off and since the first DB had been identified as a gay prostitute and the second was still open, he saw absolutely nothing. Was it the molestation that had Nick assume they were linked? Was his personal history clouding his judgment?

“Hey bro,” he looked over at the man going through the crime scene photos. “I can't see didley to connect these two. Except the sexual molestation. Mind filling me in on the whys? I just can't see it, a runaway turning tricks dumped on Boulder Highway and an unknown dumped in an alley between Menlo and 27th? One bled out, the other doped up on booze? All I can see is that someone should check what the fuck Social Services are doing to lose track of all these kids.”

Nick looked up from the binder with the reports on the other case, fixating him pensively. “Just a hunch.”

“That'll go well over with the DA's office, “ Warrick muttered.

Nick shot him a glare. “Go get a coffee or something, you're starting to get cranky.”

“I get woken up by your phone all of a sudden and dragged here. I was supposed to have this night off!”

“You slept 12 hours man, and we only came in a couple of hours early.” Nick spoke calmly, turning a page to continue reading.

“Well, I had plans for the night. Plans you'da liked, I bet.”

Nick's cell rang and he picked it from his shirt pocket, casting a reprimanding glare in Warrick's direction.

He grinned at Nick's eyebrows mocking him, before the man flipped the phone open and answered. “Stokes.”

Warrick watched while Nick's expression of concentration made his jaw tighten and his eyes zoom in on one of the photos on the table. Finally he nodded and said. 'Thanks Jim'. He rose and shut the binder, placing it neatly at the corner of the table. Warrick watched, waiting for the news. By the look on Nick's face, it couldn't be good.

“We have a possible ID.” He finally said, peering under his brow.

Warrick assembled his long legs and stood to follow Nick to the PD headquarters. “You don't exactly sound ecstatic.”

“Not a Nevada resident, might have to hand the case over.” Nick looked over his shoulder, smirking slightly. “I need to find that connecting evidence if the Feds decide to jump in.”

“I'll gladly hand it over if it means I get some quality time off.” Warrick grinned.

“And bag z's for another 12 hours, like you did with our last quality time?” Nick sent him a crooked grin. “You and Hodges outta shack it up. You so do have interests in common.”

“That'd be your butt you're referring to?”

 

 

They met up with a haggard-looking Brass, waiting right by their reception desk. The Captain gave them a look and motioned for them to step into Trace, that was empty at the moment. He held a stack of photos in his right, a steaming cup of coffee in his left.

Letting the stack of photos fall to the table in the center of the room, he sighed and pulled a chair from the opposite wall. “Why can't DBs be as good-looking as on TV?”

“So you got a possible ID?” Nick asked, hating the fact that someone close might be forced to ID the young boy. The mere thought of them having to see the swollen, rat bitten remains had his stomach clench.

“Yeah, been reported missing one weeks. From Utah, going to visit his aunt in California. Name's Fahred El-Saleem, sixteen years old prodigy, has a full scholarship at USC. Decided to wait one year and help his father in the carpeting business, before heading out to LA. This trip was to prove his maturity. Folks on their way here as soon as they can find transportation.” He extended them the photos and Nick took the stack and looked through them before handing them to Warrick.

It was hard to tell. The boy in the photos was very much alive, mocha-skinned with a shy smile, dark eyes laughing into the lens. In the last photo, a red-haired friend with freckles and an equally huge grin stood partly behind him, hand on his friend's shoulder, like pushing him forward, into focus. Both were grinning, with signs of paintball remnants on their faces and clothes. Fahred had gotten hit bull's eye in the brow, with a glaring blue.

The pictures in Nick's mind was everything but this laughing young lad, with his life ahead of him. “Asked for a DNA-profile?”

“Faxed here as soon as I phoned up to ask for more info on the missing,” Brass replied tiredly. “They had them on file ever since the report. But Wendy's not ready on our end. Red-tagged the file, shouldn't take long now. If it's him, the family will ask for a viewing.”

“They wanna see him?” Warrick asked. “How we gonna dance our way out of that?”

Nick turned to his partner, desperately locking gaze with the man. “You're the smooth-talker with the street-smarts, come up with something!”

Green eyes narrowed with mischief and moved away from him, back to the photos. “Nicky dropped the guy into a shredder by accident, that sound good to you?”

Brass let out a choked snort of laughter and Nick couldn't help but smile. Warrick was dead on, they should lie. But they couldn't. The family had rights.

“I really hate this job,” Nick groaned.

 

 

Warrick sank down on the chair in the break room, stretching his legs out in front of him. The shift felt like a triple and they were barely an hour over regular clocking out-time. Nick was not even showing signs of either tiredness or the usual frustration when a case went slowly cold under your nose. He'd walked around with a determined expression on his face, eye-brows knitted in a downward arc of concentration. He'd put Warrick on cross-referencing similar crimes nation-wide while he had gone back to the crime scene for one last check. The search had not come up with anything paramount, just a couple of cases where unsolved dumpster dumping stood out. But maybe dumping someone's 85-year old granny was expected, at least when the woman was reported as a neighborhood nuisance.

Nick hadn't come back yet and Warrick cursed himself for the automatic response to Nick missing that his central nervous system triggered; anxiety. He had to consciously straighten his face every time someone looked at him, he was sure he radiated signs of mother-henning. Which was sure to prompt Nick to pop him a good one, if he ever found out.

“Hey, Warrick, you digging into my stash?” Greg Sanders leaped in through the door, ever the restlessly energetic one. He sniffed the coffee in Warrick's cup and went for a cup, ignoring the fact that it wasn't his Hawaiian Blue, dripping through the filter.

“Paycut's weened you off your costly habits?” Warrick asked, nodding a greeting at Sara who filed in with a binder in her hand.

“More like slave-driver's mentality; I can never sneak off to get the good stuff going. I'm always chased around with demands on my vast experience and knowledge in the field.” Their newest CSI grinned, gulping down his first sip without even flinching. “So when's Grissom and Nick coming back?”

Warrick lowered his eye-brows questioningly and Sara whipped around, coffee-cup in hand. “What?”

“Well, he phoned Nick while I was lifting finger-prints off the counter and then he just walked out. Figured something had happened.” Greg peered at Sara, her eyes seeing to maul him. “Not that our case was that interesting anyhow. And, by the way, thank you speeches for breaking the case are accepted in form of bribes.”

“Right,” Sara said curtly, turning to Warrick. “What's up with the case, some new hot lead?”

Warrick had trouble talking himself into not going for the phone and hitting the speed-dial for Nick. “We ID'd the victim, that's all I know for now. Maybe Nick's stumbled on something new?”

“Aren't you on the case too?” She inquired, squeezing herself onto the chair beside him. “Why was Grissom leaving our scene to run to Nick's?”

“Why not just ask them?” Greg pointed to the two approaching the break-room.

Sara frowned, looking away and Warrick wanted to chuckle. Sara's green-eyed devil was just as much on alert as his own was. He cocked an eyebrow in her direction, just rubbing it in a tad, to hide the fact that his own devil was having a tap-dance on his shoulder. But since he was the cool cat, there was no reason for anybody to know he pretty much suffered the same affliction as Sara, merely the object differed.

Grissom walked in, with a steady course for the coffee-machine and poured himself a cup. Then he turned to look at the assembly around the table. His eyebrows rose slightly. “Don't you have work to do?” And then, without waiting for an answer, he walked out of the break room.

Sara looked at their boss, a tad perplexed and then she rose to catch up with him. “Grissom, I have this cold case, I -” Her voice trailed off when they both vanished behind the corner.

Grinning talkatively, Nick rounded the table to slide onto the chair at Warrick's side. “Wazz up, boss?”

“Sneakin' off on me to have fun, bro?” Warrick asked, looking intently at the face splitting into a wider, dimpled grin.

“If I knew you had such a need for trash, I'da dragged you along. I save you and your expertise for worthier causes.” Nick spoke, absent-mindedly, peering into Warrick's half-empty mug, like if to decide if it was worth the effort go get one himself.

Warrick cast a surprised glance at their newest CSI, snorting coffee out his nose in an attack of glee.

 

 

“So what did you dig up?” Warrick asked, standing in the doorway to the tiny office they'd occupied and littered with printouts, binders and pens strewn all over the place. He watched while Nick tidied up the mess around the computer where Warrick had been stationed, cross-referencing.

“How many coffees did you have, man? You gonna be climbing the walls all day?” Nick peered under his brow at the lanky man, seriously worried now, watching the amount of empty Styrofoam mugs scattered over the layout table. “Am I gonna have to tie you down?”

“Yes, please. Just wait till we get home, will ya?”

Nick rolled his eyes, gathering the printouts and placing them in the ever thickening binder containing marked photos.

”So what you need my expertise for, coz I kinda get the feelin' it ain't what I'm hoping for. This gonna be a triple?” Warrick asked impatiently from the doorway.

“Nah, just about done. I just need to know if there's some significance, well aside from the obvious, for the letters SOS.” He wouldn't look at Rick, not now, because Grissom had already started to look at him funny. It seemed the entire team was thinking he was tripping.

“Huh?”

“I went back and the red smear we found that came from from spray-paint was the letters SOS, at least before the local artists got pissed off at the intrusion on their turf and sprayed over half of it with that green artwork. Brass went to talk to the guys in the homeless shelter and one copped to being the one spraying over it. Said the the writer of the letters seemed an amateur, all shivery and stuff, like the sprayer was scared or hesitated. The initial S looked like a maggot on LSD, his words, not mine. But the thing is, it was sprayed right about the victim's, the color was still wet when our artist decided to reclaim his canvas. And that was exactly four days ago.”

He looked up, trying to interpret Warrick's reaction, chances were he had his finger on the speed dial for 911 to get him into a psych-ward.

“Lemme guess, the artist saw nothing, heard nothing and didn't even wanna cop to the artwork?” Warrick was looking pensively at him.

“Brass convinced him.”

“Remembered a crime that fit all of a sudden?”

“And a very believable fictive eye-witness,” Nick smiled. “Had the guy begging to squeal but he didn't remember much; the DB was there but he said he thought it was a mannequin and then he somehow developed selective amnesia on the spot. Didn't remember any car or anything. I believe him thou', probably high on something and he wasn't alone either. There was one of his pals further down the alley, he witnessed the painting, but nothing else. It was dark after all and our da Vinci worked with a flashlight. The thing that got to me was the writing in the sand by the Boulder DB.”

He reached for the appropriate binder, skimmed through the content, pulled out a photo and handed it over. . “Remember this photo with the marks made in the sand? I checked back on it. Might be half a S and O, difficult to say with the patrol-car burning rubber on it. What'ya think, bro?”

Warrick looked long and hard, turning the photo and squinting. “You're starting to convince me, man, not that I know of any rap that explains the letters. But, hey, this is Vegas, new things pop up every day. Let's check it out, tomorrow. I have this pal that moves in the right circles.”

He stopped and grinned, throwing a glance in Nick's direction. ” Damn, I just figured out the interpretation of SOS.” Warrick crossed his arms crossed over his chest, a teasing glint forming in the green eyes.

“Yeah?” Nick said, putting the binder in its place. “Care to elaborate?”

Warrick gripped his neck, more or less dragging him out towards the locker room. “SOS, Shortage of Sex; you so need to get laid, man.”

Nick shook his head. “Man, that's just - just freakin' bad choice of words. And you're only sayin' that to get on my good side.”

Warrick looked jarred, realizing the ill-fitting words in the current context. His eyes followed Nick, the creases on his brow deepening, until Nick boxed his arm amiably. “You comin' or lookin' to crack more bad jokes?”

Warrick's grip around his neck was warm and firm, a thumb coming up to rub against his skin, making him want to lean up against the strong body and just forget every thing else.

“Your place or mine?” Warrick wanted to know, stepping up closer.

Nick looked up to face his taller bud. “Yours, coz' I demand pancakes and Bob's has the best ones. Your treat, by the way. You park at your place and we'll take my SUV, no need to drive around looking for two free lots.”

Warrick only let go when Greg showed up all of a sudden, rounding the corner with a serious expression. The ex-lab rat paused in his stride, spotting the pair of them and broke out in a curious, knowing smile.

Nick heard Warrick mumble one of his more x-rated curses.

 

Their pancake joint of choice was one that probably violated at least 50 sanitary regulations. But it was safe, no one from the lab would ever set foot here, and the pancakes were thick and tasty and the maple syrup was free.

It was small, only five tables situated along the window facing out on a busy street. Said window was painted green halfway up and offered a shelter from possible peeping-toms. The former owner's widow - Olga and her daughter Gwen - were the ones running the place. Olga was half-deaf and thus, the risk of stories being carried on was close to non-existent. Gwen was in her fifties and generally not interested in sticking her nose out of the kitchen. Bob had taught her well; her pancakes were exactly like her father's had been. And Warrick remembered them fondly from his childhood, when Grams had taken him here every Sunday after church, since he was old enough to walk on his own. In those days, the joint had been serving to the the almost entirely black neighborhood, cajun food predominant on the menu. Bob had gotten competition from across the street when a McDonald's had opened up, along with the gentrification. Old Bob did the only thing he could do to stay afloat; he switched to pancakes.

It was only a couple of blocks away from his townhouse, but it seemed like another world, an older world.

Olga didn't notice them despite the loud tinkle of the door; she kept folding take-away boxes with stern concentration. He cast an amused grin in Nick's direction, he wondered every time why the place wasn't robbed, like twice weekly? And his bro nudged him to make their presence known somehow.

“What?” Warrick scowled. “You want me to poke her?”

The swing-doors to the kitchen opened and Gwen stuck her head out. “Ma! Customers!”

Olga dropped the box she was folding and straightened up, like caught red-handed with her hands in a cookie jar. Then she smiled, leaned over the counter and pinched Warrick's cheeks with both hands. “My boy!”

Nick laughed out loud and Warrick cursed the fact that he'd somehow lost his cool with this old lady. So he kissed the wrinkled cheek. “Olga. Still goin' strong, I see.”

“What?” Olga kept smiling, tilting her head to get a better look at 'her boy'. “You picked the right day. Rick. Gwen's been trying out some new recipes, you'll be the first to try 'em out. On the house. We'll even throw in the regular as desert. Alright?”

Warrick nodded. She was talking so loud that Warrick felt the need to step back to save his ears from bleeding, but he never did.

“Well then, c'mon boys!” She wandered to the table in the corner and wiped it off with her apron. “You're gonna sit here and I'll bring you the milk.”

“Skimmed, please!” Warrick had to bend down and shout.

“Yeah, yeah,“ Olga beamed, reaching to pinch his cheek again. “I know my boys, but a little fat's never killed anyone.” She tapped his stomach affectionately and smiled at Nick. “You sit down, you look tired.”

“I'm fine,” Nick said, one of his more radiant smiles directed at the old lady that literally melted from the sweetness. She tilted her head in her characteristic way and took in the Texan grin, with an echoing one of her own. Warrick watched her eyes shine from contentment at the sight of Nick at her table.

“You'll be fine as soon as you get some pancakes,” Olga promised, hand stroking over Nick's cheek as she went to fetch the offerings.

Warrick smiled sweetly at the old woman returning with two plates, cutlery clattering with every step, threatening to fall to the floor when she bent, stiffly, to place the plates on the table. He shook his head in affectionate defeat when she swaggered off to get the milk, returning with standardized version instead of the skimmed.

“Now you eat up or you'll have to answer to me.” Olga looked sternly at her boy, pinching his cheek one last time before she returned to her seat behind the desk.

Nick chuckled and looked at him from under thick lashes. “Now lay it out for me, Warr. You're sweet on Olga.”

“Yeah, being belittled is such a thrill.”

“I gotta remember that,” Nick grinned over the spoonful of strawberry jam he was aiming at his pancakes.

Warrick was just about to bring out the heavy artillery when Nick's cell went off and with a look at the display he answered, “Jim?”

Fascinated, Warrick watched Nick's face hardening; the jaw line tensed and eyes lit dangerously, with a slowly burning fire, from deep within.


	4. Chapter 4

He literally felt his stomach clench at the news Jim Brass was dishing out.

There was another victim; the boy on the paint ball picture had accompanied Fahred on the trip. And now this boy was on life-support at the University Clinic. He would probably never wake up, because of severe head-injuries and had been identified only early yesterday as Ryan Dermott, friend and travel companion of Fahred. The two had been supposed to have reached California and nobody had reacted before it was too late. Teenagers on the run was common, too common to end up in the news.

The kid had been found at Hadland Park, only a couple of blocks from Menlo. His face all swollen and with multiple contusions, making it impossible to visually recognize him. Fingerprints had given no hits and his teeth, of which two had been missing, had finally gotten matched to the missing boy's chart, late yesterday.

He had been found with a crucifix by his side and undergone several surgeries that saved his life, but left him in a deep coma. He had been believed to be the victim of a hit-and-run, but no evidence of tire marks, or burnt rubber had been found at the scene. Ecklie's team had photographed and searched for any kind of marks on the clothing and found nothing pertinent to a vehicle of any kind. There were no witnesses, no surveillance to pull, and it had been left at that. The victim's clothes had been picked up and put in the vault to wait for someone with free time on their hands, for further investigation. But they hadn't logged the case until today. Leaving the coincidence, of time and geography, with the Menlo-DB, impossible to detect.

Nick was seething; the case simply wasn't high-profile enough for Ecklie to roll up his sleeves and get working. The cost-efficiency was too low and even Brass sounded ticked-off at the other end by the case. A case that was linked directly to theirs, and one they'd totally missed.

Brass ended the call by telling him to inform Warrick and reminding him he needed to aid him in the meeting with Fahred's folks. They would show up tomorrow evening, having caught a ride with the Dermotts.

Nick promised and closed the phone.

He looked down at his plate, his stomach all tied up in knots. They had probably missed key evidence on this case. And there was nothing he could do about it, except wait for the next victim to turn up. Because now he was certain, there was a pattern to the madness, he just wasn't able to grasp it. Or stop it; he was certain there would be more victims. It seemed like the offender was just refining the killing skills. Ecklie had taken the easy way out, probably wanted to wait till the victim woke up and closed the case for his team.

“Nick?” Warrick asked, “what's up, bro?”

“Someone from Ecklie's team screwed up.” He looked at his partner, seeing the same disgust for their administrator's modus operandi sweep over his face.

“You expect anything else?” Warrick asked in earnest. “And he'll be more than happy to blame the mess on us.”

“You done?” Nick asked. “I'm just not hungry anymore.”

Warrick looked at him, with a creased brow and narrowed eyes, before he rose and walked over to the counter. Bending over to get the take-away boxes from under it, and left some bills. Olga was still standing with her back to them, polishing glasses. Warrick grinned in Nick's direction and returned to shovel the rest of the pancakes into the box.

Nick scrambled to his feet, knowing exactly what Rick planned to do; sneak out without a word, leaving the poor Olga doubting her mind. He laid a hand on her bony shoulder and the woman jumped.

“Ma'am. We need to go, something's come up.” He raised his voice enough to ensure himself that it carried into the kitchen and Gwen too.

“But -.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, we'll be back.” He laid another bill on the counter and Olga leaned in and gave him a cheek-pinch.

“You take care now, you look tired. Not enough pancakes, young man!”

“I know,” Nick smiled. “Next time, ai'ght?”

He took a couple of steps back, lifting his hand in a salute to the petite old lady, and gripped Warrick's elbow to drag him out.

“Big wedding?” Warrick taunted.

“An' you're not invited, man. Courtesy never killed anyone. Let's get to the lab.”

Warrick stopped dead in his track, turning around to face him. “Brass ask us to show up?”

Nick crashed into the taller man, “Eh? No, but there's the clothes of this Dermott kid waiting for us to -” he took a step back, trying to pass the man and get to his car.

Warrick stepped up to stand toe to toe with him. “No way Nicky, you're already wearing yourself too thin with this case. I don't get it, another day or two is not gonna make possible evidence any colder than it already is. It was cold as soon as we got it, it's not gonna get any warmer. Days already been over this, I suppose, it was their case to begin with, right? We spent twelve hours on the scene, another 14 cross-referencing and looking for possible hidden clues and everything is being processed as is. We don't have a suspect, hell we don't even have a fingerprint. Why the rush?”

“Coz' I don't think it will end here, there's something about this that has my skin crawling.” Nick fixated Warrick calmly.

“You're still thinking serial?” Warrick narrowed his eyes, meeting Nick's dead-on and the disbelief was evident. “It might be two different killers after all, we really have no other proof than a couple of letters that can stand for anything. Maybe it's a jibe among the sanitary workers emptying the dumpsters? What if our DB saw the Dermot kid being run over and the driver decided to off him and make it look like something totally not related to a hit and run?”

“Not even you believe that, Rick,” Nick snapped. “Told you it's a hunch, and damn you, it's getting more evident with every DB. Listen bro, you don't have to be a part of this. I just-.” He looked away, not knowing how to put the feeling of dread he was experiencing into words. That nagging feeling in the back of his head that this predator, or predators needed to be stopped right now. “I just need to run with this, y'know.”

Warrick gripped his elbow, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes. “I got your back bro, you know that, but you'll have to be careful. Don't push it, not with Ecklie and not with Griss. We need solid evidence before we start theorizing, or we might be pulled off the case so fast your head will spin. Low profile, Nick, that's how we need to go on about this. And don't keep me outta anything, Nicky. I need to know everything, every step of the way.” His voice increased in volume with every sentence.

“You got it man,” Nick promised.

“Good,” Warrick replied. “Now, with that outta the way, why are you denying the fact that you need to sleep before you keel over? You were up while I bagged z's, I heard you. You were pacing the linoleum, like a greyhound on a race. What the fuck is up?”

“Rick, we're in the middle of a street here.” He freed himself, looking around nervously. There were people passing close by, hurried steps clattering on the pavement, curious glances sweeping over them. A young woman, clutching the hand of a small girl, watched them and decided to cross the street. The kid's eyes met with his and he smiled at her, not wanting to scare her. The mother said something and yanked at the girl's arm. The kid looked away and half-jogged by her mother's side.

He didn't want to get into this particular subject, not now. Not ever. But Warrick wouldn't let go; he followed while Nick retreated to his car and finally he was stopped by the driver side door hitting his ass.

“Nick,” Warrick breathed into his ear, his voice a mix of worry and warning. “What more is there you're not telling me? Why won't you sleep? I mean, I get it after what you told me, but you said it was over. It's not over, is it?”

Nick turned to look across the street, at the hamburger joint and its steady stream of customers filing in and out of the doors. The young guy outside had stopped his sweeping of the pavement to look at them. “Rick, people are watching.”

“So let them! I'm not letting this go.” Warrick gripped his arm, forcing him to turn and face him. “I gotta know what's gotten you so wound up that you're relapsing into insomnia.” Warrick's brow was creased and his eyes bore into his own.

“I'm sleepin', I'm just not hibernating like some I know.” He grinned his automated smile, the one he used when trying to muddy the waters.

“The BS won't go over with me, Nick, I thought you knew that. Nightmares coming back? Was it that DB causing them? Don't go getting funky on me, man!”

“No, it's nothing, just trust me on this one.” He tried again to get free and managed to get his keys out of the pocket and push the remote. “I really gotta go, Warr. I'll drop you off at your place and be on my way. I just don't wanna see anymore kids buried in -” He cursed inwardly the moment he realized he had used the wrong word. “Dumped in crap like that. Their folks having to see what's left of them.”

“You're not going anywhere, not like this, Nick. Not with those bags under your eyes. Don't you think I thought about it? What you would have – if we hadn't found you when we did. What would have met us when we finally did?”

He heard Warrick swallow thickly, a pause between every fractioned phrase, words unspoken lying in between. Warrick always hit close to home, too close for comfort.

“What does that do to a person, seeing someone you actually know and love, violated and degraded, like that? It's easier for us, we're used to seeing DBs, we're not remembering them alive. And his parents, Rick, his parents want to see him. How am I supposed to stop them from doing that? Make them understand that it will destroy them, that they need to remember is him, alive. And he would have hated for them to see him like that. Where's the dignity?”

He looked down on his hands, squeezing the car key into his palm.

“Dignity? Nicky, what the fuck?”

Warrick gripped his wrist, opened his curled fingers and took the key from him.

“Get in the car Nick, just get in the fucking car! Dignity, Nick, dignity? What the fuck are you thinking?”

“Warrick, I -” He was shoved around the car and unceremoniously pushed into the passenger seat.

“Don't you fucking move!” Warrick was seething, growling orders at him, wild eyed and desperate.

When Warrick got into the SUV, he stuck the key in the ignition and made it roar to life. Nick wanted to protest at his man-handling of the truck, but one glance at the pissed off man at his side, had him hold his tongue.

Warrick's knuckles were white around the steering wheel, his foot pressing the pedal to the metal, taking the last corner with screaming brakes. Then he pulled up at the curb, shutting the engine off and breathing hard and jaggedly while he loosened his fingers off the steering wheel.

“Warrick? Gimme my keys back, dammit!” Nick watched while the man slid out of the car, rounded it and opened the passenger door.

“C'mon, Nick,” Warrick's voice was strained now, low and barely contained and he wouldn't meet with Nick's eyes. “Inside.”

This getting ordered around was starting to slowly get on Nick's nerves. He bit down, took the pancakes and got out, feeling his body tense up from withheld irritation.

 

 

When the door shut behind them, he felt Warrick's arms wrap around his middle. His name whispered against the nape of his neck, as the weight of Warrick's body landed on his with full force. It was totally unexpected and his eyes went wide as he stumbled forward and almost toppled over from the force of the embrace. He lost his grip on the box in his effort to stay on his feet and it fell with a thump, to the side of their feet.

“Fuck you, Nicky, fuck you!” The words were mumbled to his neck, the timbre of the voice a mixture of pain and anger.

“I'm sorry, Rick, I didn't mean to get you this riled up.”

Warrick dragged him backwards and pulled him down to sit on the floor, wrapping his long legs and arms all around him. Thanks to the grip on him, all Nick was able to do was follow Warrick's lead and sink to the floor, totally covered with a slightly trembling Warrick Brown.

“What's up with you an' floors, Rick? New kink?” Nick felt he had to get out of this, any way possible; cheap shots, pissing the man off, sex; anything was better than what he thought was coming. Being psychoanalyzed by his lover was really not something he'd ever get into.

“Shut up Nick, just shut the fuck up. I'm only gonna tell you this once, and you're gonna hear me out, dammit.” Warrick's hold tightened, his voice lowering an octave, clearly letting Nick know that unless he popped Rick's lights out, there was no way out of this.

“You don't sleep Nicky, we made out good and you were up an hour afterward. I heard you and I know you sleep like a log after sex. You only came to bed after I had my spell and you got what? Four hours of sleep?”

“I had things to tend to,” Nick tried to protest.

“Like folding the clothes and loading the dishwasher? You get like this when you're about to burst, Nick. I'm surprised you didn't repaint the house when you were at it. I've seen you pick apart the engine of your SUV, Nick, remember that?”

“Shut up, Warrick, that was needed maintenance.”

“No, it was exactly what you're doing now, and have been doing, since we processed that scene. Building fucking brick walls around you, shutting everybody out. And now you're serving me some shit about losing dignity? Dignity, Nick? You were buried alive, six feet under, someone did that to you. You got out alive, Nicky, you're here doing your job. That's dignity Nicky, that's more than you can ask of anyone. I know you can't let it go, I fucking can't. But man, this silence and denial is eating you from inside.”

He felt his entire body tense up, spine reacting automatically to the spoken words, memories threatening to infiltrate and take over. “Don't Rick, please don't.”

Warrick's arms tightened further around him, hands coming to grip his own that had started to tremble slightly and make fists of their own volition. Warrick's fingers fleeted in through his, holding on and easing the shivers.

“I watched you shoot out that light, thinking you were about to off yourself. I screamed at you, cursed you and was fucking going out of my mind. I was losing it totally until you flicked on the glow-stick. I was just fucking losing it, sweating all over and about to puke. I wanted to kill the damned bastard that put you there with my bare hands. But the fucker was already gone. When I went to change clothes I just stood there. Looking for a fresh set of clothes. And it hit me; you were trapped in a space no larger than the locker. The damned locker, man! Underground! And I was looking for a clean set of pants? I just felt like fucking fainting. I had to sit down, and I knew in that instance that I would have eaten my gun a long time ago. I wouldn't have made it more than an hour. And you were still sticking it out. Fuck, Nicky. I lost it so many times that I can't even remember all that happened. I went off on Greg, cried in front of Catherine and literally begged. I'da been down on my knees, promising my own life for yours if I hadn't been so frantic about finding you. But you held it together, you fucking held it together even when your air was running out. Thanks to me wanting to keep the damned lights on so I could keep an eye on you. Because I needed to see you. And then, when we finally found you I couldn't rip you outta that place, because the fucker had placed explosives under the thing! I just lost it all over again. Shit Nicky, you were forced to lie there, wait for us to cover you with dirt and pull you up, risking your life all over again. And you fucking survived, you held it together and survived! I can't understand how you did that without going completely insane because, goddammit, I went over the border right there and then. I stepped into some kind of darkness and I'm not completely out of it yet. I still want to kill that motherfucker, I want to make ground meat outta him and feed him to the dogs. And you, you went to visit Kelly Gordon? That's fucking dignity man, that's just, fuck it Nicky, that's just -”

Warrick's entire body shivered now, his voice so thick it sounded broken. The last words were forced out through rapid, jagged breaths.

Nick felt paralyzed, knocked over by the words, the voluntary confessions of his lover. He hadn't expected the pain he felt coursing through the body holding him close. The anger, making Warrick tense up, when he talked about Gordon blowing himself up. The shivers when he talked about watching him almost eat his gun. The small contractions in the hands, holding his, when he talked about watching the locker. He imagined being the one watching Rick in that box, fighting for his life and freaking out and he knew he'd gone completely out of his mind from not being able to help. Chances were that he would actually have ripped some poor innocent bystander's guts out, from utter despair, at watching Warrick trapped like that. Warrick wasn't to be trapped, not like that, not ever. Warrick was his lover and best bud, but he was a free soul. Messed up and full of demons, yes, but still needing his freedom more than anything. He'd never be tied down, to anyone or anything, not after having gone through the addiction to gambling. He still struggled with that, something deep inside tugging at him. But he held out, caught in an inner war for personal freedom. Nick knew and respected that need. Was he tying him down emotionally right now? Was Warrick here with him out of guilt?

And then it hit him, like a lightning from a clear sky; that nagging feeling took shape and the theory started to take a clearer form. The small cues that had bothered him fell into place, the brutality of the crimes was neither personal nor accidental, it was revenge. Hatred taken out on symbols for evil. What the symbols stood for, he wasn't exactly sure. But the emotions behind the crimes were as clear as the symbols were. The ones that laid brutalized.

He let his head fall back to lean on Warrick's shoulder, craning to look at him.  
“Rick, I didn't mean it like that. This is not about me, it's about that kid dumped off like trash. He had no chance to begin with. I think he and his bud had a thing going, the way his bud looked at him. That was no ordinary best buddy-gaze, that was deeper. That's how I look at you. Think about it, Rick. The first victim was a male, gay prostitute. These two were traveling together, stopping off in Vegas, what if the targets are young male gays?”

“We don't know that, Nicky, and right now I don't much care.”

Warrick still held his face hidden against Nick's shoulder, voice raw and muffled.

“I have this feeling it's some kind of hate crime, the bestiality speaks loud and clear. Hate against what, I'm not exactly sure, yet. There may be more to this. But I know this all is not pure coincidence, and I don't think there's only one person involved, it's more like a revengeful killing team. There's a system behind this, and it's being refined.”

“Nick, stop yapping about the case, I don't care about the fucking case right now!” Warrick lifted his head from Nick's shoulder, face drawn and eyes red-rimmed as he looked at Nick, a pained scowl on his face.

“Rick, I'm sorry.” He leaned in closer to capture the parted lips, brushed up against a stubbly cheek and sucked the lower lip in between his own to let his tongue slowly play on the soft skin. Warrick tilted his head and answered the kiss, frantically searching the contact offered with a soft, guttural groan. His body relaxed, molding to Nick's; shivers subsiding. Nick basked in the warmth, turning around to be able to wrap his arms around the taller man's frame, offering the only solace he could think of. His fingers moved to the thick, coarse curls, molten heat spreading down his spine, reaching the roots of his heart. Sending it throbbing when Warrick's arms wrapped around him in turn, pulling him even closer.

He reluctantly pulled his lips off Warrick's when he found himself splayed all over his man, pinning him to the hard floor. “We need to get to the bed, babe, this is gonna kill you. You're no spring chicken.” He kissed the partly open mouth with conviction, tongue asking for entrance all over. He was promptly sucked into the warm wetness that had him groan and grind his erection to the man under him.

“Rick, you all right?” He panted when hands gripped him desperately, sneaking in under his tee-shirt, holding on while lips trailed down his neck. “You sure about this?”

“Bed Nicky, now, or you'll really have me climbing the walls. I just need to feel you wrapped around me.” The heat of the groaned words had him grin and he leaned in to let the tip of his tongue trail along the cartilage of Rick's ear. Playing lazily with tongue and lips on the man's sensitive spot before he withdrew and whispered, seeing to it that his lips remained close enough to tease. “Sex is not always the answer, babe.”

“You fucking tease,” Warrick groaned and flipped them over.

 

Warrick woke to a sound of a pained exhale, sensing Nick shift uneasily at his side. Bleary- eyed and disoriented, he did what he always did when Nick stirred; he rolled to his side, folded his arms around the man and pulled him closer. He, Warrick Brown, had developed a sixth sense when it came to the different degrees of distress in Nick Stokes' sleep. And he considered himself a very logical man, not prone to believing in any of the stuff he'd developed around Nick. He knew when his bud slept in peace, despite an occasional grunt or mumble, sensed when his unease was just a result of factors like being too cold or warm, or like in this case; stress and psychological strain.

He cursed Brass for asking Nick to be present at the possible viewing, that was not Nick's job. But Nick wouldn't say no, and truth be told, he'd probably handle it better than most of the other CSIs, or detectives. He'd let his innate empathy speak and let that same deep understanding tear himself up while giving the family the sense that their loved one was not just a number, but someone that was respected even in death.

But Nick would cope with that, he always did. It was this new anger that disturbed Warrick, this slowly burning rage that the man kept hidden deep inside and carefully bottled up, manifesting in tensed muscles and automated 'I'm fine' grins that never reached his eyes. Was he the only one to see that? Was he the only one to notice the changes in Nick? Nick had all the reasons in the world for his anger, but the outlets for the simmering anger were starting to worry him. Nick was withdrawing more and more, sealing himself off from the team, building walls. Where would it end?

He buried his nose at the nape of the sleeping man's neck, wondering if Nick was creating a new kind of imprisoning box for himself?


	5. Chapter 5

The woman's hands shivered slightly when she shook Nick's. A feathery-light tremor.

She sat, sunken down, on the chair beside her husband. Clad in a dark-gray Abaya, with a floral pattern the shoulder, she stood out like a beautiful, foreign bird. Her black hair drawn to a thick braid, her eyes guarded as she looked at the criminalist, presented as Nick Stokes, in front of her. Nick smiled briefly when his role was being explained by the unusually soft-spoken Captain Brass. Dark eyes met momentarily with his, without much interest, distraught by the grim reality that had brought the two of them here.

The husband at her side was clad in ordinary slacks and a plain shirt. His grip on Nick's hand held some kind of desperation. A plea that what had been told was only a misunderstanding, that everything was a mix-up. Nick didn't dare meet his eyes and have him read what he'd be forced to tell them. He merely let his gaze sweep over the man and rest somewhere on the cheekbones. The bitter fact hit Nick; on top of everything; he was being rude and avoiding eye contact. Nick gritted his teeth, admonishing himself for his obvious lack of manners.

Jim Brass cleared his throat and looked at Nick. “Nick is the lead CSI on your son's case, he will fill you in on everything you need to know and everything you can tell him is of help to solve the case.”

The woman looked at Nick, dark lashes fluttering nervously. “You found my son?”

“No, Mrs. El-Saleem, someone tipped us off on how to find him. It was an anonymous call and it was traced to the neighborhood where your son was found. We haven't been able to identify the caller, I'm sorry. I was the first CSI on scene, I supervised the handling of your son's remains. My deepest condolences for your loss.”

A sob escaped the woman; a sound that hit Nick like a fist.

“Mr and Mrs. El-Saleem, can I get you anything?” He let his eyes wander over to the husband, whose lips were pressed tightly together, elbows resting on the table, shoulders hunched over. The man looked up and shook his head. “No, but thank you for asking.”

“You are sure that it is my Faffy?” the woman asked quietly. “Is it really him?”

“The DNA matches your son's, Ma'am. Yes, unfortunately it is your son, there is no doubt about that. I'm so sorry.” Nick replied softly.

The husband swallowed, his shoulders slumping further. “You said you had some questions?”

“Yes,” Nick nodded. “How did he keep in contact with you, did he phone from somewhere along the road?”

“He has - had, his own cell-phone,” the woman replied, looking down at her hands. “He is a good boy, pays his own phone bills, knows that using it costs money. We decided he should call home once a day, but when he did not -,” she paused, her eyes tearing up while she swallowed. “ He was a good boy; he worked all summer for this trip to see the university he was going to attend next fall. You know, he could have gone this fall, but I thought he was too young and he wanted to help out his father another year, he is – was, a good son.”

“Can I have the number please? We can trace the calls made and get an idea of what your son visited while in Vegas.” Nick asked and Brass slid a paper and a pen toward the husband sitting at his left.

The man lifted the pen and wrote the number down, apparently knowing it by heart. Brass smiled gratefully and retrieved the paper.

“How about a computer?” Nick asked.

“He got one of those small things, laptops, last year.” The husband answered with a grated voice. “He took it with him to 'hook up' and mail us. Why?”

“It's protocol to check mails and possible chat-logs when someone goes missing.” Brass seemed to finally have gotten cured from his acute tongue-paralysis. “Maybe he'd made friends with someone in Vegas? Did he ever mention something like that?”

“A friend?” The woman looked at Brass, shaking her head. “No, he never mentioned that. And Faffy's a good judge of character; he wouldn't make friends with anyone like that. He would know, would he not?”

Nick let his eyes rest on the woman; marveling at the innocence yet not surprised. Parents often seemed to have a rosy picture of their offspring. “How long had they planned on staying in Vegas? Did they make hotel reservations?”

“They had not planned on staying here at all,” the husband informed them. “At least they did not tell us about it if they had. Faffy called and said he had decided to stay for a day or two. He just wanted to see the Pyramid and the casinos. I told him he was too young to actually go gambling, but he said he just wanted to see Vegas. It was all so different from back home.”

“Were they close? Would your son have stayed here if he traveled alone?” Nick asked, not exactly knowing why that question popped up in his mind.

The woman looked up at him, her eyes skidded over his to her husband's, then back to her hands on the table. Her voice was low and trembling when she finally spoke. “No, but they were not always together, not like that. Ryan did want to stay too, but I do not know if they were together,” the woman said in a rush. “I did not mean like -, they were just friends. They -,” she trailed off, her hands clenched into fists.

Nick's heart sank, he really hadn't wanted his suspicions to be true but the woman just confirmed it. And he felt no need to push the issue.“Was that the last time he called you, Ma'am?”

“Yes, he called from the airport where they got off the bus. He said they would get some food and find a cheap hotel. The battery in his cell was low so he told me he would call again when it was re-charged. It was rather late already, around eight. When he didn't call back at eleven, I started calling him. I called him all night and in the morning the operator told me that the phone was out of reach. That is when I called the local police. They told me I had to wait twenty-four hours before reporting him missing. Was that too late? Could I have done something else?”

“No, Ma'am. You did all you could.” Nick assured her, feeling his stomach clench.

“I should have saved him,” the husband let out. “I should have come here and found him for myself. I should have -”

“Rayid.” The woman put a hand on her husband's arm and he was silent, the muscles around his jaw twitching. “The police laughed at us the first time we called and reported him missing.“ She shook her head. “Told me that he probably got on the bus and had forgotten to call, or just forgot to charge the cell. Told me to wait another twenty-four hours. And we did! We-,” she let out an desperate sob. The husband looked at his wife, moving his hand on top of hers and laced his fingers with his wife's small ones.

“How did your son handle alcohol?” Brass asked, looking down to the table. “Did he have a history of consumption?”

“No,” the woman shook her head angrily. “That is against our religion. Faffy didn't like the taste, he told me. He had been offered beer at a party. Can I see him now? I need to see my son and take him home.”

Brass and Nick exchanged a glance and Brass talkatively pursed his mouth shut.

Nick went cold. He leaned back in his seat and tried to gather himself to not come off as cold and spiteful. “Ma'am, I would not recommend that. It's been a long time and I think you'd be upset.” He spoke softly, keeping his eyes on the grieving woman.

“I need to see him, I need to know it's really him!” Dark eyes flared in his direction.

“I know Ma'am, but we can arrange for you to see a photograph, or see his face through the monitor. There's no need to -”

“No! It's my baby, my baby that was killed by some beast. I want to see what was done to him, I want to touch him. He's my son!”

“I know, Ma'am. But he won't look like the son you remember. The body you will see isn't what your son was, it's just his remains. It won't be him.”

Tears ran down the woman's cheeks, gathering in the lashes before they formed rivulets glistening in the sunshine falling though the small window. “I need to know.” she said quietly. “Please don't take that away from me.”

Nick nodded, unable to form words for a while. Then he rose, looking at the distraught pair by the table. “I'll accompany you.”

 

Warrick groaned inwardly when Hodges appeared, the usual smirk on his face, this time competing with a look of triumph that, no doubt, stemmed from his elevated sense of self.

“Where's the pretty boy? I have news!” The lab tech stood in the doorway, swinging a printout.

“Pretty boy? What you been putting in your coffee Hodges?”

“Nick! I heard the day-shift receptionist tell someone on the phone that Nick's too pretty to be straight. Made my day.”

Warrick ogled him tiredly; he was not about to get into a verbal shootout with Hodges, not tonight. “You talkin' 'bout other news than the fact that you've lost you've lost your last marble?”

“I resent that!” Hodges glared back.

“You resent everything, Hodges, now gimme the news!” Warrick rose from his seat and advanced on the shorter man.

“C3H5(C18H35O2)3 !” Hodges read and then pressed the printout to Warrick's chest.

“Huh?” Warrick stopped, looking down on the paper.

“Stearine, from candles. On the sample you took off the Dermott kid's pants, in the Menlo DB's hair, and catch this - also on the DB found on Boulder. Grissom's ex-case had some drops in his hair too. I think your cases are connected. Or there's a sudden need for punks to attend church and play with candles. Because the high amount of stearine, and the lack of the usual coloring compounds in the samples, indicate some kind of votive candles.”

“On all three vics?”

“You need your ears waxed or something? I just -”

“He's right, damn, he's right! And now there's proof! Where's Nick?” Warrick pushed past Hodges, stepping out in the corridor and hitting the speed dial on his cell.

“Obviously not back from the morgue yet, I heard it was a veritable circus. Brass bailed out, the mother had some kind of fit and the husband almost fainted. I hear - ”

“Find Nick and beep me when you do!” Warrick ordered, walking briskly down the hallway, peeking into every room. Nick wasn't answering his cell. “C'mon, bro, don't do this to me!”

He spotted Sara in the layout room, stuck his head in asked if she had seen Nick. The brunette shook her head, “Nope, but I heard the viewing was gruesome. Rumors fly fast around here. Not answering, is he?”

Warrick shook his head, hitting the re-dial. “If you see him, tell him to get his ass to Trace. Or the phone outta it; there's news.”

He didn't remain listening to the answer, he had a sick feeling he knew where to find his bud. Letting the phone ring he walked to the restroom, having to stop as the door swung open and Gerard, the janitor, stepped out. “Looking for Nick Stokes?

Warrick nodded with the cell still plastered to his ear, the signal he recognized, sounding from inside the restroom.

“He's in there all right, just sitting there, not saying a word. Lifted his feet when I swabbed the stall, mumbling something about being sorry.”

“Been there long?”

“He sat there when I went in and is still sitting there, don't look like he's about to move either.” Gerard looked genuinely concerned.

“Tough case,” Warrick explained, pausing at the closed door, for just a second. He really didn't feel all that good about barging in and Nick would probably kick his ass all down the Strip, but there really was no alternative. He opened the door and walked in, hearing the sound of Nick's phone in the stall with the open door. He stopped right outside the stall and closed his cell, waiting for Nick to acknowledge him.

Nick sat on the closed lid, almost bent double; legs splayed out, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. “Go away,” he grumbled.

“You ok, bro?” Warrick inquired, crouching to get on eye to eye level. “Told you not to have a big breakfast in case there was a viewing. That bad, huh?”

“Rumor mill?” Nick's voice sounded raw and scratchy, like he was barely holding it together.

“Hodges.” Warrick crouched at Nick's knees. “Need something?”

“Besides a new job?”

“C'mon, can't have been that bad,” Warrick tried.

Nick lifted his head, locking gazes with him. “No?”

“Lay it on me, man. What went down?” Warrick took a look at the floor around him and deemed it clean enough before he folded his legs and sank down to sit on it. In a crisis, you simply had to get down and dirty.

“Doc had done all he could, only the kid's face was visible. She talked to him, watching him like there was nothing wrong with him at all, like he still was there, y'know. I couldn't make out was she was saying because she spoke Persian, but it sounded like if she were talking to a scared or sick child. Must have done so when he was little. All soft and motherly-like. The husband just sat down on the bench by the wall, gulping for air. Brass had to help him out. She was fine until she touched him.”

Nick looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, trying to hide the twitching. His voice had lowered considerably, when he continued.

“She just freaked man, tried to get him off the slab. The woman was 5'2” but it was like holding a grizzly, she screamed and I've never heard anything like it. It didn't even sound human, it was like she was being shredded from inside. She kept yelling that she wanted to take him home, he needed to be in his own bed and not here in the freezing morgue. She kicked and scratched, trying to get to him. I had to tackle her out of the room and then she just fell apart. Went all limp and the way she cried, man! I've never heard anybody cry like that.”

Nick shook his head, resting it on his hands anew. “I knew it, “ he mumbled. “She shouldn't have been allowed to see him. She'll never get over it.”

Warrick smiled bitterly; Nick was absolutely right. Some images you never escaped. He had a couple himself, that kept haunting him, and Nick was still alive.

“Where they at now?”

“Doc called for Dr. Kane, he came around and got them to the ER. Probably both doped up since hours.”

Warrick's eyebrows rose. “So how long have you been sittin' here?”

Nick raised his head, an embarrassed, guilty smile forming. “Why? You missed me?”

“Hand me your cell,” Warrick ordered with a wry grin. “Lemme check, coz' Hodges was looking for the pretty boy and you weren't answering your phone. Chances are you'll be doing a lotta 'scusing yourself to a lotta folks around here.”

Nick sighed and reached for his phone. With a creased brow, he went through the list of missed calls and text messages. “Nah, you, you and Hodges - three times and Brass and Griss. The last one probably to read me the riot act for not informing him. I dunno if I can take that today.” He winked tiredly at Warrick sitting in front of him on the floor. “You do have something going on with floors, don't cha?”

Warrick rose, gripping Nick's vest by the shoulder strap and pulling him up. “Shut up. You and me have a date with Hodges in Trace and it ain't me he's calling 'pretty boy'.”

“I dunno if I can take Hodges today, either,” Nick groaned as he was pulled out of the restroom, while re-dialing the missed calls.

“Better you than me, pretty boy!”

 

 

Greg met up with them outside Trace. “I heard you got a hot lead.” He almost tripped over the words in his hurry. “Now why is it I can't ever play with you two?”

“We do?” Nick asked, confused. “How come you know and I don't?”

“I heard Hodges tell Warrick something about wax. Sounds good to me and Grissom told me I'd be with the two of you on this case tonight. Seems it's getting bigger. You should call him, Nick, he's been trying to find you.”

Nick groaned and leaned on the door leading into Trace, making it swing open. “Hodges, you in here?”

The lab tech's head popped up from behind the computer screen. “Oh, you found your pretty boy,” he smirked in Warrick's direction.

Nick raised his eyebrows in surprise and Greg made a strange noise that he immediately covered with a fake cough.

“Say what?” Nick asked. “You have news, I hear. From Greg, nonetheless.” He pulled out a chair opposite the computer screen and Warrick chuckled and seated himself at Hodges' side, forcing Greg to remain standing.

“Just heard someone mentioning pretty gay boys, and your name came up, that's all.” Hodges said, casting a wary glance at Greg, hovering over a stack of papers. “Now Sanders, what are you doing here?”

“What? Who?” Nick wanted to know.

“Never you mind,” the man leered in Nick's direction. “Sanders, really, I have naught for you.”

“I'm with Nick and Warrick, on the case, I mean,” the former lab tech replied indignantly. “Just get on with it, will you?”

“Says the one that used to take half a day to even find his results,” Hodges shot back, a scowl on his face.

“David, please,” Nick groaned.

“Of course, everything for our pretty boy. Okay now, I went through the samples Warrick gave me and the strange substance in your vic's hair is stearine, the kind of you find in candles. Same thing popped up on the samples on the clothes pulled off the poor vegetable at the university clinic. I found it to be exactly the same, compound by compound. And hold on to this; the third victim, the one on Boulder had it in his hair too. Either these boys have some strange fetish and play with candles, or the cases are connected.”

Nick sighed deeply.

Warrick threw him a glance before returning to the diagram on Hodges' screen. “So you're absolutely sure it comes from the same kind of candles? Same brand?”

“No, it's from a specific manufacturing batch, the amount of specific ingredients vary slightly every time candles are made. Now it's up to you to look through the candle-database and find out the origin of this particular batch and whereto it was sold. I'll give you some clues; non scented, yellowish wax screams church, namely Catholic, to me.”

“Well,” Warrick leered, leaning back. “Greg has his work cut out for him. He has to drive from parish to parish and nick a candle.”

“Hey!” The younger man protested. “How many churches or chapels are there in Vegas? Hundreds? It'll take me weeks!”

“Don't forget Henderson,” Nick pointed out. “It's either that or coming up with an ingenious idea to pinpoint the source.”

Greg looked at the man by his side, ready to protest, but then he simply shrugged his shoulders theatrically. ”I'm not a Stanford prodigy for nothing. I'll call around all the manufacturers, ask if they have a chemical analysis of their batches and match them with ours. The I'll ask for info on all the shipments of said batch. I'll start on it right now. It's just like being back at the lab; I'll just switch the microscope for the phone.”

Nick grinned and swung his legs off the chair and rose, patting the younger man's chest affectionately. “That's our lab-on-wheels talking.”

Warrick watched how Greg's face softened, a smile emerging as he sent Nick a glance from under his brow, evidently not exactly knowing how to interpret the ribbing. But the glance back at Nick when the youngster turned to leave had Warrick's little green devil poking him in the ribs and growling in his ear. He decided to play cool, and pull out his stern face. Wouldn't do it to grab his man and push him up against the wall, would it? Still, he itched to do it.

Nick turned to the man behind the computer screen, pointing playfully at him. “I'll go grab some coffee. You be a good boy, Hodges, and keep analyzing our samples and I might get to like you yet.”

“I fear the day,” Hodges mumbled and took the next sample in line.

 

Nick sank down on his usual chair in the break room, nursing a cup of coffee. Watching how Warrick expertly stole a couple of Sara's organic cookies from the jar she kept, well-hidden behind the boxes of cereals that was the main nutrient for the lab techs. Tossing him one, his bud leaned up against the counter.

“Told you we'd get proof they're linked, sooner or later.” Warrick grinned at him. “I shoulda bet a Jackson on it, at least.”

“So did you get hold of your bud with the slang-expertise?” Nick asked, not quite ready to let his pal know he really didn't want to be right. Not about this. This time he'd have gladly accepted to be totally wrong about everything.

“Zac? Yeah, he said he hadn't heard anything of the kind. Served a batch of new idioms though, some might come in handy one day, but nothing pertinent to this case. Told me I was getting too white and he'd have to whack my ass. He was going to ask his students, just in case. Something might still come up.” Warrick creased his brow. “Gettin' too white, huh?”

Nick shook his head to hide his grin. “Weak lead anyhow, anybody could have written it on the dumpster and we don't even know if the letters actually stand for anything. We have nothing but weak leads on this one, nothing scientific but stearine? Man, where do we go next?” He looked at Warrick, feeling like the case was slipping through his fingers and hoping his bud would come up with something. He usually did.

“Here comes the big D, maybe he has something for us?” Warrick pointed to the corridor where Jim Brass had appeared, his aim clearly the break-room.

The Detective pushed the door open, threw them both his usual wrinkle-browed glare and went straight for the coffee-maker. He sniffed the coffee with a smirk and more or less dragged himself to a chair by the table. “The leisure-committee, I presume?” He quirked his left eyebrow at Nick.

Nick felt a guilty twitch under his left eye. “Archie checked the calls?”

Brass stirred his coffee. “Guess how much we got outta that?”

“Zip?” Warrick offered.

“And the award goes to Brown. The last call he made was the one to his folks, pinpointed it to outside McCarran. Battery must have died. The Dermott kid made a call, to his folks, saying they'd met up with some dudes and where going to check something out. He'd call back later, didn't know if he'd be in range, when he got to where they were going. Archie is still checking that out.”

“A remote place with a church or chapel, always something. We'll still probably get the general direction they took.” Nick felt a twinge of hope. “Not much but -”

“Church?” Brass asked.

“Wax from candles on all three vics,” Warrick said, walking over to join them at the table. “Hodges assumed it was some kind of ecclesiastic candles because the lack of color and scent. It's just a hunch, we have Greg working on it.”

“So you were right,” Brass looked at Nick. “How'd you figure that out?”

“Don't know,” Nick shrugged. “We still don't know, we have no evidence to prove anything yet. The coincidence factor is still high. Maybe there was some club or gig with some kind of candle play, that they all attended? We just don't know if they're really connected, and I really don't want them to be and I don't want it to be religious in any way or form. I don't want this case to have any connections to anything whatsoever.”

“Huh?” Brass' cup paused midway to his mouth. The face the Captain made in his direction struck Nick like one of baffled disbelief. Like he was a penguin, showing up at the lab to ask the man for a dance.

“If we can't trust the people who are supposed to care for our souls, what is left?” He found two pairs of eyes staring at him and decided to look down at the remains of coffee in his cup  
He didn't know how to hide his feelings of doom about this case. Something primally evil seemed to cling to it. “If there's officials from a church or creed involved, it just proves that there's nothing to count on left in this world.”

“It's not the first time religion has inspired to heinous crimes, Nick.” Warrick pointed out.

Nick looked up and grinned disarmingly. “That's what I'm sayin', there's nothing freakin' sacred left in this world.”

Something in Warrick's eyes told him he'd somehow revealed too much.


	6. Chapter 6

Warrick was fuming as he walked down the aisle to the A/V-lab. He'd simply have to bash Nick's head in when he found out where the man was hiding this time. Answering his cell like he was right now was a crime, specially when they were on the case together. What the fuck was 'checkin' somethin' out' supposed to tell him, exactly? Nick certainly wasn't at the lab, not with that kind of background noise. Sticking him with the tedious task of going through the plastic bags for fingerprints was seriously pissing him off. Especially when the fingerprints probably would lead them to nothing but endless alibi checks. It felt like Nick was intentionally leaving him out of the loop for some goddamned reason.

“Arch?” He called out to the lab tech.

“Yo!” The answer was immediate, a dark head popping up from behind the giant screen on the table.

“Got your text, how you doing on the tracing?” The room was dark, the only light coming from the multiple screens. The bright colors of an intricate screen saver played across the giant one on the far wall. Colors flashing so fast it was liable to give someone an epileptic seizure.

“You're not gonna like it,” the tech grinned. “Just don't kill the messenger.”

Warrick had to make an effort to move his eyes from the hypnotizing images on the HD-screen. “I'm not liking anything with this case right not, just lay it out.”

“Well, the lucky thing is that during the call, the cell moved from one antenna to the next. That gives us a direction and an area, nothing else. Looks like your guys were traveling down Boulder and the call was made between College Drive and Horizon. All I can tell you is that they weren't hoofing it.“

“They hitch-hiked? Damn!” Warrick sank to a stool, wishing they'd had this case when it was actually fresh. “No traffic camera holds pictures for over a week. If we'd only found the DB a week ago!”

“Yeah, well, Nick seemed to find something interesting when he checked out the McCarran security cams, took of like a lightning, thirty minutes ago.” Archie made a sigh over the shoulder to the free computer behind him.

“Took off? Alone?” Warrick moved around to the other desk, clicked the mouse to shut down the screen saver and was met with a screen dump of a couple of punks in black t-shirts. He leaned in closer, the sleeve had some white print on it. He enlarged it by 60.000, seeing a very pixelated picture of something green and white. Running the usual logarithms, he found it was something that might,or might not, be 'SoS'. He restored the dump to its original size and realized they'd never ID a neck alone. The boys seemed reasonably well-kempt and young, at least from behind. Not the regular thugs.

“What is it you two see on that screen-dump?” Archie asked, leaning in over Warrick's shoulder.

“A hunch,” Warrick replied, going for his cell. This time he growled when Nick answered. “Ok man, where exactly is your ass? You better spill, coz I'm on my way.”

He closed the phone without a word at the reluctant reply. With a nod at Archie he was on his way to the locker room to get his gear. He'd still read the riot act to one certain Nick Stokes. Specially about going on fact finding missions all alone.

 

He was almost at the exit when Catherine called his name. He turned to the strawberry blond CSI, who walked briskly toward him, a strained look on her face.

“What's up, Catherine?”

“Where's Nick? Haven't seen him all night. Ran into him yesterday and he almost knocked Mandy over in his hurry to get away. What's up with him.”

“I'm just about to join him on his fact-finding mission, he's been busy.” He smiled at the petite woman, her occasional mother-henning of a grown man like Nick was downright endearing.

“Don't BS me, Rick. What's going on with him? And don't tell me you haven't picked up on it because I know you. It's not like you to let things slide.” Her eyes were piercing, drilling into him mercilessly. Catherine Willows was not only sassy, she could turn dangerous if not placated when on the warpath.

He looked out to the parking lot, seeing the first rays of dawn color the sky. “Catherine, really, I'm not the one you should be havin' this convo with.”

“Don't make me pull rank on you, Rick. I know you two hang out, I know you've seen what I have; something's up with Nick. He's edgy, going off on suspects, yeah, I know all about it, Sara told me what happened in Pixote. And now this evading? He's all suave about it, just like you, but I don't buy it, I'm not Grissom. I'll go through you to get to him, don't ever doubt me. We're losing him, Warrick, can't you tell?”

He felt his jaw involuntary tense. Yes, there was no doubt, he had noticed the changes in his man too. But they had started a long time ago, it wasn't just this case. It was so much more. He kept his eyes on the burgeoning dawn outside, not wanting to affirm Cath's suspicions by meeting her eye to eye. It simply wasn't his place to meddle in Nick's affairs. Not when it came to a third party.

“He's been through a lot.”

“I know that,” Cath replied in a constrained voice. “I know he's been through hell and back. But he's not talking about it, he's not letting anybody in close enough to make a difference. He's sealing himself off and I can see something eating at him. Not just that he was buried alive, Warrick. Which would drive anybody over the edge. He's been held at gunpoint, had a maniac set roots in his attic and wanting to become him! He -” She stopped talking abruptly, and Warrick suddenly understood she needed to get this off her chest as much as she needed Nick to be fine. He turned his eyes to her, seeing the overt concern in her eyes, and felt he had an ally.

“He told me, y'know.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

“About the babysitter,” he clarified.

Cath looked away. “When?”

“A couple of days ago, I kinda forced him after the incident in the morgue when he asked you if you thought he wouldn't be able to handle the case. What he said, and how he said it just didn't leave me alone. I prodded and he spilled. You're right, I know something's wrong, but I don't know what and I don't know how to fix it.”

He kept his voice barely audible, not wanting anybody to pick up on his words or his concern. Nick had enough on his plate as it was, didn't need anyone looking differently at him. He looked down at his hand, still holding onto the door handle. “All he asked for was for me not to treat him differently, I promised and I intend to keep that promise. I never told you anything of this, Cath. If it gets out I spilled, we really are gonna lose him, Catherine. He's always there when I need him. I'm gonna stick by him, that's all I really can do.”

Cath's lips curved to s small smile. “I know you two got each others' backs. I hope that's enough this time around too, because if we lose Nick, I don't know if the team will survive. And we're good, hate to see that change.”

“Everything changes, Catherine.” He smiled back at her, recognizing the need for something to still remain. It never did, he knew that, but the wish was there all the same.

“I know,” she nodded. “But if a man like Nick loses his faith, or goes dark on us; what hope is there for the rest of us? We're all jaded because of minor problems and disappointments and look at Nick. He still manages to keep it somewhat together, despite all. He still believes in the goodness of people, that's just Nick. If he loses that, what's left for the rest of us?”

Warrick froze in his spot, the truth in Cath's words hitting him. She was right, Nick had gone through hell over and over and never asked for help. He just hung on and still believed that there was righteousness, fairness and some kind of good in most people. Warrick wasn't capable of such a faith, and he had come through things almost unscathed. Would he come through losing Nick? No way in hell. Nick was the only family, of sorts, he had left, the only one that knew exactly who he was and still hung around. To not have his bro around to compete with, taunt mercilessly and hell yes, love, was unthinkable. It just didn't exist. And he had nothing to tell Catherine to soothe her, nothing at all.

Cath reached out and put a hand on his arm, squeezing it. “You go see what Nicky is up to.” She smiled and walked away, leaving Warrick hanging on to the handle, trying to picture the lab without Nick. He wasn't able to.

His frown deepened, with concern when he stepped out and walked over to his SUV.

 

 

The heat of the town had never felt like this before. The relative coolness of the night was fading fast, lost in the stillness of the desert air that slowly descended to take its suffocating grip on inhabitants and structures alike. The torrid heat was creeping in over Las Vegas, unyieldingly. The fading darkness made the street lights dim and the city struggled to change from night to day. Actors changed, the lowlifes of the night changed into the husslers of the day, only the clothes changed - as if the costume truly made a difference. The tempo seemed sluggish, movements stilled by the heat. The people walking around him barely looked at him, like as if he were a mere prop of sorts, like he didn't belong.

Nick continued down the street outside McCarran, stepping out of the way of stressed travelers wanting to run him over with their suitcases on wheels. Keeping an eye open for any black shirted youngsters made him a standing target to crash into and curse at. It was desperate move, he knew that. What he had spotted in Archie's lab would probably come down to nothing, or some new label in fashion that he'd totally missed. Reading too much into things had become a habit he wasn't able to kick. He'd look for possible dangers, hidden truths and meanings everywhere; every glance was interpreted, at least twice. Just in case.

He walked the street aimlessly, automatically avoiding the occasional litter and drunks returning home from a night out. His ball-cap shielded his eyes from the rising sun, shielding him from occasional curious looks thrown his way. He was just as foreign a bird in these surroundings as the grieving woman had been on his home turf, the lab and the PD headquarters.

A Greyhound pulled up and he squinted his eyes, looking at the passengers welling out and lining up to get their bags. An elderly lady took her sweet time in looking around and finally waving with a magazine, when yells for 'Granny Betty' filled the air and she was surrounded by three jumping, jostling kids. They nearly took the woman down with their joy. He smiled, sticking his hands into his jeans pockets as a sudden twinge of home-sickness washed over him. Normal life, family and friends with troubles like finding a parking space; death not the eternal company instead of jostling life. He almost toppled over at the hard push to his shoulder.

“Hey bro, thinking of jettin' outta here?”

Warrick grinned, city slick and a perfect fit to Sin City, with his suaveness and self-assured stance. Nick would never get over how right Warrick was, right as rain and it made his heart swell with the knowledge that the man, standing in front of him, lean and mean, still chose to be his friend.

“Man, that hurt!” He tried a scowl but didn't quite manage since the man in front of him was already looking around, green eyes gleaming in the light. Stunning - the word fit as perfectly to Warrick, as Warrick fit the city.

“C'mon man, I need some coffee. You seen anyone that fit our bill?”

“Nah,” he shook his head, falling in behind his bud. “I tried to talk to the private security company they have hired but they pulled their 'under contract' speech, sworn to silence. Guess John don't wanna be found out hanging around with Jane. Gotta produce a warrant if we want info. Not seen any beat cops either.”

“You're on the wrong end, Stokes. All action takes place on the other side. This is just the landing dock, the real action takes place north of the main entrance.” Warrick stopped by the coffee-shop, flirted shamelessly with the young chick in the booth and got two take-out cups in record time.

Nick took the offered cup and looked at his bud. “Since we're in your hood, you take the lead.”

“I just did,” the taller man leered. “It's really not our gig, bro. Just humoring you here. Let's get the cars and take a look at Hacienda and the Strip. Those shirts were probably just parking here, or had some business to take care of. They won't be hanging around here when there's the Strip.”

Nick's knuckles touched his bro's arm in an acknowledging jab. “I'm off the clock, just looking, no need for you to stick around. I can cruise the Strip on my own.”

“I'm just looking out for your ass.”

“Oh, thanks man, but my ass is just fine,” Nick grumbled.

“Oh, I know that.” Warrick turned, grinning widely and dishing out a reciprocating jab.

Nick chuckled, knowing that he'd been had and fell in stride with his main man.

 

 

The west side of McCarran was the melting pot of Vegas and the world outside. It was in constant motion, populated with wide-eyed tourists of every nationality, well.manicured escort girls and shady dealers from downtown, looking for new possible suckers to lure into their game.

Warrick watched Nick from the corners of his eyes when they made their way through the constant mill of people. He wasn't sure why Nick thought he'd stumble on what he was looking for here, chances of that ever happening were close to nil. Maybe he really was looking for a way out, without even knowing it?

“We can always get a beat cop to prowl the joint just for a couple of days,” he suggested.

“Yeah, that'll go down well,” Nick snorted. “The department has more important things to do than itch my scratches. It was a hunch, it fell flat on its face, case over and we go back to look at other possible leads.”

“If we only knew why?” Warrick pondered, “why were those kids picked? And where? We'd probably be able to pinpoint a location if we only knew why and how the victims are chosen. Chances are that the first worked The Strip are highly unlikely, too low-class an act. Downtown maybe?”

“Or maybe we should just make out in public and lure 'em out.” Nick mused, adjusting his ball-cap.

“Huh?” Sometimes Nick just plain pulled the rug from under his feet. This time it had Warrick almost trip over a trolley, rolling dangerously close to his feet.

“If it's the gayness that triggers the attacks, we should just put on a show.” Nick winked at him.

They stood outside the parking lot, waiting for a green light and Warrick turned to look at his man. “Don't tempt me, man,” he teased. To his amusement Nick's earlobes turned a slightly more intense shade of pink. Then his eyes widened and he pushed Warrick to the side. The hand having grabbed his shirt formed a fist around the fabric and alerted him enough to turn and look in the direction Nick's eyes were trained.

There was a Blue Ford Transit, with a side-panel imagine of a Madonna holding a candle, passing with high speed on the other side of the road. The phrase ”Sons of September” forming an arc around the Madonna-image. No further explanations were offered to the cryptic words.

“What the fuck?” Warrick let out in surprise and went for his cell while trying to get a look at the plates. All he was able to see as the Transit sped away was that it was a Nevada plate, then the view was blocked by a SUV, rolling down the street with considerably less speed in the left lane. A long line of cars were glued tail to nose behind it, preventing them to see much of anything. When the coast had cleared, the Transit had vanished out of view.

Nick was already on the phone with Brass, asking him to do a search for all blue Nevada registered Ford Transits with Nevada plates, and check the owners for possible rap sheets. Then he listened intently, nodding and telling the Detective he'd be in asap, checking Greg's results.

Warrick reached out and gripped Nick's shirt sleeve, dragging him over the street when the light turned green. He tried to locate the blue Transit, but it had disappeared out of sight. Then he felt Nick tense up, stopping in his tracks. He turned to him, wondering what had brought on the tension.

Nick's face was blank, lips pressed together. Nostrils flaring. “He what?” he asked into the phone. “I'm off the clock, not wasting lab -” Pausing mid sentence, his face turning hard while looking down and shoving his free fist into the pocket of his jeans.”I get it. Yeah, all right, it's an order, I copy that. I don't like it but I get it.” Then he flipped the phone closed and looked out over the parking lot, his eyes narrow slits.

“You wanna dish out what the fuck just happened, Nick?” Warrick asked.

“Maxed out on over-time,” Nick replied in an oddly laconic voice. “I was ordered to go home and not return until tonight. Seems I can't even do what I want on my free time any longer, Jim said it won't be admissible. We have a lead, bro, an important lead and Grissom tells Brass to send me home?”

Warrick took a good look at the man, he looked haggard; the bags under his eyes were clearly visible and the strain of the last few days and the long hours had made his shoulders slope. “Can you blame him Nick?”

Nick turned to look at him, face still totally closed off, not one emotion visible.

Warrick shook his head in frustration. “I told you before, man, You need to get some serious sleep. Not pull these fucking tricks and play detective after clocking out. The deed's been done, you can't save those kids. They are already dead, don't go killing yourself because you need to save something that can't be saved.”

The eyes that met his were hard and cold, like Warrick had betrayed him by simply asking him to take time off. “Nick,” he tried again.

“Ai'ght, I'm leaving,” the man said, putting his cell away. “See you tonight, you're maxed out too, just so you know.”

Warrick wrinkled his brow, wondering why he was being served the cold shoulder. “Yeah, I guessed that. We've been hanging out enough for me to put the pieces together. The case is not gonna run away, it'll still be there. And with our heads clear we might see something we missed.”

“Yeah, right,” Nick muttered and started to walk away.

“My place in an hour?” Warrick asked, “I'll pick up the pizzas.”

Nick swiveled around on his heels, smiling that faked grin that never reached his eyes. “I'm gonna hit the gym,” he informed with a shrug and turned back and half-jogged in the direction of his car.

Warrick remained glaring after the fleeing man. The anger at being blatantly dismissed battling with his concern about the odd manners of his bud. But he wasn't one to beg, not now, not ever. He turned around, heading for his car, fully resolved not to think about fucking Nicholas Stokes until they were due back at the lab.

 

Warrick started to understand Nick's 'forgetting-by-doing' strategy. He had restocked his fridge with beer and other non perishable items, paid his bills and even checked out his reserve-kit, just in case, when he realized he was done in for. There was no way he could let Nick off the hook like that, not when the fucking man kept popping up in his mind at every moment. The forgetting part of the strategy clearly failed, big time. He couldn't get over the simmering anger that he literally felt coursing through Nick at moments. But it seemed to creep closer and closer to the surface, breaking the boundaries more frequently. And now the fleeing? The reactions were understandable, yet they obviously didn't work as intended. The stone wall Nick kept putting up, between everyone and himself, was getting thicker and thicker. And Warrick was pissed.

With a low curse, he pulled a 6-pack of beers out of the fridge, packed a bag with new clothes and carried his kit along with the rest to his SUV while ordering pizzas with all the trimmings to be picked up in ten. He had all the intentions of having Nick spill what the fuck was going on, he wouldn't watch this slow disappearing act of his man any longer. He'd find that button and push it until Nick let it all go, in one way or another.

He slammed the door shut behind him, gripping the car keys hard. Knowing full well that the rage he felt was nothing but fear, but he was a man that was accustomed to turning fear into anger. Anger was easier to handle. He broke apart even thinking about fear, the few times he'd experienced that emotion was enough to last him a lifetime. Fear just wasn't in his book, didn't exist. The engine roared when he started it brusquely and headed out for the pizza joint. If Nick would see how he treated the truck he'd get a smack over his head. And justifiably so. But right now he didn't care, he wanted to confront Nick and get whatever he had up his ass out of the way. For good.

 

He held that resolve until he opened the door and walked into Nick's townhouse. He let his bag fall to the floor with a loud thud and proceeded into the kitchen with the pizza boxes in hand, slamming them and the 6-pack of beer down on the table. The startled look on Nick's face at his abrupt appearance had his heart make a jolt.

What was being hidden, behind Nick's brick wall, was so evident in that precise moment; distrust. Catherine had been right. Nick had always been the one to trust that there was good in most people. That seemed to have taken a major dent. And Warrick understood that it was like losing one's religion. Something permanently lost - a belief that lay so deeply anchored that it colored one's world. And right now Nick was re-establishing that world, without the former corner stones. He was rearranging his foundation, new layers having been added, old ones fading.  
.  
There was no anger in Nick right now, he looked tired and beat. The snug tee and the loose sweatpants and bare feet made him look young, younger and more vulnerable than Warrick had seen Nick in a long time.

Nick didn't say a word, just kept his eyes on him as Warrick walked up to stand toe to toe with him. The eyes were big and questioning, trained on his with the innocent openness that Warrick missed so much.

He just looked for a while, taking Nick in. The perfectly chiseled jaw, the straight line of his nose and the dark eyes framed with impossibly long lashes. The expression changing from surprised to slightly amused; dimples deepening as the smile widened.

Warrick didn't speak either, he just wanted to watch the man and find a way to communicate his worry and concern without crowding or forcing Nick to open up if he felt he was unable to. That was the last thing Warrick wanted to accomplish; a wedge between them because he was unable to fully understand what was going on. Pushing too hard too soon. That would send Nick running for his life, even from him. Nick's gaze searched his, the dimples vanishing, making way for a questioning crease on the brow.

“You wanted to make out,” Warrick finally cracked, his voice having somehow grown all thick and hoarse.

Nick smiled tentatively. “Actually, I was about to take a shower.”

Warrick cupped his hand around the strong neck, resting his thumb up against the hot and sweaty neck line. Then he pulled him close, planting his lips against Nick's and asked for entrance. Nick never hesitated, not for a moment. He let his tongue slide into Warrick's mouth, suckling slightly when he applied pressure on the lips devouring him. Warrick had to close his eyes; this was all Nick. He gave without asking, trusting him whole-heartedly without questioning motives. That part was still vivid in Nick. He felt tears sting behind his closed eyelids and cursed himself when the memories of the times he'd almost lost Nick - to a mad woman with a gun, a stalker and a horrid underground coffin - washed over him. But Nick's kiss was soft and insistent, chasing the memories away and claiming him through and through. He draped his arms around the shorter man, pulling him close enough to feel the heartbeat against his own ribcage. When Nick pulled away to breathe, he leaned his forehead on Nick's, looking into the warmth radiating toward him.

“You're gonna eat first, then I'll scrub your back before we hit the sack. And you're not leaving the bed without my permission.”

“That an order?” Nick asked, peering at him through the long lashes, trying to hide the smile that curved his lips and darkened the color of his eyes, making them sparkle.

Warrick snorted, tightening his grip. “Wanna bet? And I have Brass on speed-dial in case I need handcuffs.”

“Man, you're full of kinks.” Nick leaned in, mumbling the words to the skin on Warrick's neck.

“Only have one, you.” Warrick grinned, knowing exactly what was coming next.

“Whoa! Girly moment,” Nick chuckled, making short, hot exhales waft over sensitive skin, tickling with their lightness.

“Shut up,” Warrick murmured, latching onto the parted lips. Feeling the heat course through his veins when he felt muscular arms snake around his waist; his man finally relaxing and melting into the hold with a small shudder.


	7. Chapter 7

He was following a blue Ford Transit in a long dark tunnel, looking for a way to get close enough to stop it and free the screaming, horridly-contorted face behind the grimy window in the back. He was on foot, his steps clashing against the wet asphalt. Running till his breath hitched and every time he got close enough to hear nails scratching against the metal door, the Transit sped up and was out of his reach. The face behind the foggy window that dampened the screams from inside, making them sound hollow and preternatural like the features of the face that seemed to change from vaguely familiar to utterly unknown. It rattled him, pulling at some strings deep inside while the screams seemed to crash into his body, seeping into his very core, ringing in his ears. Mortal fear in the tone that seemed to rattle his very bones. The overwhelming suspicion that the person inside that truck was someone he knew and loved, had his body in a constant tremor. He finally got his hand on the handle, jerking hard at it, cursing the door for not swinging open. Hand sliding over metal without really sensing it, like it was air and not tangible. Alluding him with its perceived closeness and stability. Out of his reach, mocking him for his own human inability. He went cold, the sound inside the car turned to a long whimper, a plea for help and he stood there, hanging onto the handle that wasn't really there, a mere illusion. He was so close and still so helplessly inadequate. He growled and swore, hollering invectives as he fought the invincible and alluding mass, transient in its nature. Banging on the glass, scratching it with his nails, trying to crack it with his bare hands, he felt sweat run down his temples, stinging his eyes.

Then something heavy landed on him, pinning him down and restricting his movements; the panic changed shape and coursed through his veins with renewed vigor. The mortal fear had changed faces, becoming glass pressed against his palms. He felt a body pressed to his, a steely, well-known presence of scent and touch. Not Rick, not his man, not Rick! The suspicion of having lured the man he loved into hell was verified when the voice called his name, making the panic well through him with a force that had his body arch in absolute terror.

“Hey, c'mon Nicky, c'mon!”

The voice was close to his ear now, lower and more soothing, he felt arms around him, holding him steadily and rocking him. He shuddered, trying to push the pictures of the choking darkness away, tried to open his eyes but the screams still echoed in his ears. His limbs ached, his breath ran uneven and try as he might, his eyes wouldn't open.

“Nick! I gotcha man, open your fucking eyes. Shit man!”

He was awkwardly pulled into a warm lap, and finally he was able to exhale as his eyes opened, taking in the soft light of the room. It was his bedroom, not a long dark tunned of dripping wet cement or a dark tomb. It was his man holding him, not some alien force squeezing the life out of him.

He let his bleary eyes roam the room, to reassure himself once more. He was half-sitting, with his knees folded up in front him, Warrick's knees digging into the small of his back, strong hands clasping his wrists that lay crossed over his stomach. Held in a steady hold, all while he was being rocked slowly back and forth, he tried to speak and let Warrick know the he was all right..

“Uhn.” Was all he got out.

“New one?” Warrick asked, easing up on the rocking.

Nick cast a glance over his shoulder, meeting with Warrick's wide, startled eyes. Utterly embarrassed he smiled weakly at the man acting as his savior. “Huh?”

“Don't 'huh' me, man! I know all your different kinds of nightmares. I'm a scientist and I've got yours all down, from how you twitch to the way you breathe and move. I gotta hand it to you, this one was somethin' else. You fuckin' scared me shitless, what was all this frantic trashing around about?.”

“I -,” he swallowed convulsively. He felt blood rise to his face, coloring it, causing a twitch of shame in his limbs. His knees rose higher out of pure instinct. These ridiculous nightmares simply had to stop, simply had to. “I'm sorry.”

“Shut up, Nicky. I'm gonna pop you one if you don't shut up with the 'I'm sorries'. This fucking case is about to kill you man. I'm starting to think we need to hand it over to days. I just don't get it, why the fuck are you so rolled up in it that it's eatin' you alive?”

Nick clenched his jaw and tried to move away. This was a topic he'd rather not get into, especially since he had only an inkling about why this case grated his nerves. And contrary to Rick's obvious beliefs, it was nothing personal. It was just - the boy on a slab, tortured to death and flung out for the world to view as a helpless victim, deprived of all human dignity.

He didn't get far, the arms tightened around him and Warrick huffed and pulled him back into the secure hold. “Not gonna talk ar'ya?”

“Rick, it's nothing. I think I overdid it at the gym today. Must have gotten my metabolism all screwed up or somethin'.”

Warrick snorted with disbelief. “Yeah, right. Overdid it at the gym. That's right bro, I'm so on you with that one. Just don't try that rap on anybody else man, coz' you're a lousy liar.”

The corners of Nick's mouth twitched, he felt it like an immense sense of relief. The darkness was fading fast and he finally dared to lean his head back and relax against the broad shoulder.

Rick was looking at him, studying his face like everything would be written on his forehead. There was this stern expression in his narrowed eyes, the 'no BS' written all over his face. It jarred him and grounded him at the same time, he felt stripped naked and still perfectly safe. It was suddenly okay with his man calling his cards. It was just fine, Rick was just fine. He smiled up at him. Relaxing against his chest.

The expression of sharpened scrutiny softened visibly, the creases in the brow easing up. The green mellowed out as the eyes widened slightly in relief, not forced to train on him with full attention any longer.

Nick moved, trying to shift his limbs out of the awkward, hunched up position. Flexing his fingers to get Warrick to loosen his grip around the wrists. The man took the cue and let go, running the hands up along Nick's arms, palms coming to a rest right under his bent elbows, long fingers resting splayed out over his damp skin. Something about that gesture, that hand, felt more intimate than the fact that he was curled up, like a lost kid, in Warrick's lap. The hands rested on him because Rick wanted to, not out of some need to keep him glued together and preventing him from tripping. They just laid there, on his skin, for the sake of it.

Nick turned to rest his brow against his man's neck, closing his eyes and breathing him in. “Rick, I'm all right, really.”

“Right.” The voice was calmer now, sounding almost resigned.

“Don't have to go tell anybody about me freakin' out now, do yah?” He spoke quietly, just needing the reassurance.

Warrick let out an incredulous chuckle and shook his head before he wordlessly flipped Nick over to lie on his side and moved to pull up the covers, proceeding to tuck them both in and turn off the bedside lamp. He positioned himself to spoon the shorter man, draping an arm over the naked chest and pulled him flush to his own body. “Yeah Stokes, I'm gonna paint such a pretty picture of how I held the 'pretty boy' like a baby and crooned in his ears. Scared shitless. Yeah, that's exactly what I'm gonna do.”

Nick felt tears gather in his eyes, a huge knot in his gut dissolving at the words. “Thanks, Rick.” His voice wasn't quite steady when he spoke quietly into the pillow.

“Nicky.” The tone was low and vibrating on the nape of his neck. Warrick paused for a while, like searching for words. “Y'know I gotcha , Nicky. But I'm starting to think that's not enough. Maybe you should talk to somebody? Just get it all out and let it go?”

Nick blinked to get rid of the tears threatening to run down his cheek and onto the arm under his neck. “I'm fine, bro. I'll just lay off the gym for a while. Now get some sleep, we're due on shift in a few.“

“You're so full of shit, Stokes.”

It sounded like a groan and Nick forced himself to relax, starting from the toes he made every muscle in his body become lax and heavy, regulating his breath to sound like he was asleep. Warrick's warm body finally relaxed, snores leaving him in a regular rhythm and the heaviness of the arm around him assured him that his man was sound sleep. He opened his eyes then, listening in to the reassuring sounds of Rick's deep breaths. He didn't dare move to avoid depriving him of further sleep.

So he laid there, staring out into the slowly darkening room and found himself going through the case in his mind. Picture for picture, evidence for evidence. The sick feeling of this only being the beginning was growing stronger, poking at him. And he felt helpless. However much he went through the evidence, it didn't point anywhere specific. He was getting nowhere, threading the same path of thought, over and over again.

It was like the face of the dead boy was following him, asking for some kind of help. And he was unable to offer aid.

 

 

He could tell Nick hadn't slept a wink after his nightmare, it was evident from the forced smile and grimace as he stretched out on the bed after both their cells had gone off. His eyes were bloodshot and it seemed to take an effort just to keep them open. Warrick had been watching the man intently while on the phone; his face darkening, shoulders tensing. He was obviously hearing from Grissom what he was hearing from Cath - another DB, probably a young male, found downtown with enough similarities to set off the alarm. And this time the crime-scene was fresh, intact and was being sealed off by the detectives. Cath had just got wind of it, being the CSI on call. The paramedics had alerted PD, after pronouncing. Now it was all waiting for them.

“On our-, my way,” he told the CSI on the other end. Then he closed the phone, watching Nick do the same and rise from the bed, without a word, eyes downcast and jaw clenched. He walked to the door, hit the frame hard with his fist and mumbled something under his breath and proceeded out of sight.

That had Warrick up on his feet and following the man into the kitchen where he stood, leaned over the counter, head down.

When Warrick entered, he abruptly stood up, reaching for the coffee pan and filling it with water.

“Wanna eat somethin' before we head out??” Nick asked, back still to him. He managed to keep his voice under control but his shoulders spoke out, loud and clear. Meticulously he poured the water into the coffee maker, reaching for the can of ground beans and a filter. The tendons on his neck moving as he fought to keep his anger reined in, the vein pulsating rapidly. He fumbled with the measuring cup, having coffee spill onto the counter, hand shivering slightly. One knuckle scraped raw and red.

Warrick draped his arm around his man's middle, pulling him away from the counter. Nick stumbled backwards, his weight shifting as his bare feet shuffled over the floor, measuring cup falling out of his hold.

“Warr,” he warned.

Warrick ignored the growling and pulled the strung-out man flush to his body; it felt like holding a live wire. “Nothing you can do, bro. The deed is already done. You couldn't have stopped it.”

He knew he had pushed the right button when Nick reacted with a sharp, full-body twinge before he tried to get lose. But Warrick was prepared, he'd become used to the escape and evade tactics. Tightening his grip, he waited until Nick's body reflexively relaxed in his hold. It always did, sooner or later, he knew that holding Nick was the best way to ground him.

“We'll get the sicko behind this. You just gotta trust me on that.” He leaned in, keeping his voice neutral, waiting for Nick to compose himself. When he finally was still in his arms, Warrick twirled him around, needing to assure himself that Nick wasn't just playing him. He was good at that, showing what was expected of him, keeping the real locked up. The dark eyes finally met with his, the expression difficult to read.

“We'll get 'em, Nicky,” he promised, pulling the man to lean on his chest. Nick fell willingly into his hold, burying his forehead at the junction of the shoulder and neck. His 'I know' was barely audible but it was enough for Warrick. Had to be enough because he wouldn't get anything more out of Nick before he was good and ready. And he obviously wasn't yet.

“Maybe if I hadn't gone home yesterday, if I had stayed and found that freakin' Transit. Found an address, a phone-number, anything! I might have rattled the bastard enough to prevent this. It's escalating, Rick. Whomever it is, is getting off on it, big time.” He spoke quietly, a tinge of defeat in the voice.

Warrick shook his head at the usual savior complex poking at his man. “You're trippin', man. There's nothing anyone could have done to stop this, but we'll get there and it will be over. C'mon, man, don't go on a guilt-trip, this has nothing to do with what you did or didn't do.”

Nick lifted his face and draped his arms around Warrick's middle. “´Lyin' to me is not gonna make it any easier.”

“Shut up man! Not even you, Stokes, can save the fucking world. Get that outta your fat head.” Warrick shook his head, rubbing his stubble against Nick's cheek.

The man shrugged apologetically, a small, guilty smile fleeting over his face. A small pout following.

Unable to resist, Warrick kissed the the man, cursing him for bringing out the cuteness card. “Go get a quick shower, and shave.”

Nick looked at him, in full puppy-eyes mode. “No time, gotta get going. I'll just grab some java and nuke you a bagel.”

“Whoa! Didn't Griss tell you that the paramedics pronounced and that the coroner is back-logged? They're waiting for Dave to show up and that'll take at least two hours. We have time.”

“Sounds like some wanna play hookie.” Nick leaned in, murmuring in Warrick's ear.

That was it, Warrick gripped the neck of the full-fledged flirt and pushed him in the direction of the bathroom. “You're gonna pay for that,” he mumbled. “And the price is gonna be steep; no making out for at least a week.”

“Cruel.”

“To begin with,” Warrick clarified, suppressing a grin.

“That's why you wanna shower with me?” Nick almost purred the words when he flicked on the lights in the bathroom.

“I'm just keepin' an eye on your sorry ass. I don't make enough dough to pay for another set of shower-curtains.” Warrick gripped the towel and shoved it at the grinning face.

“Hey, I wasn't the only one gettin' carried away.” An indignant pout and ruffled hair were revealed from under the towel.

“But you were the one getting tangled into them.” Warrick went for his toothbrush, motioning for Nick to get on with it already.

Nick glared and stepped behind the curtain, flicking the water on. “And who got the brilliant idea to begin with?” Nick muttered, sound muffled by the splashing of water against tiles.

Warrick grinned contentedly at his image in the mirror.

 

The heat was still oppressive, torrid and accentuating the smell of rotting leftovers and organic waste in the dark downtown alley. The street ended in a brick wall, lined with overfilled dumpsters. Nick knew, the moment he stepped out of the Denali, that there was a symbolism in the dumping places. The victims were considered pure trash, no doubt about it. It wasn't to hide the bodies, it was to make a statement. He threw a glance over at his partner, noting the face of disgust at his home-town's sharp contrasts; the seediness so apparent in this specific site. So close, yet miles away from the neon and glitter of the Strip.

The officers guarding the yellow tape blocking the entrance nodded their salutes when they slid under the boundaries. Their faces spoke of the same tiredness and disgust Nick felt when watching the scene from afar.

 

The streetlights didn't reach far enough into the alley to illuminate the actual crime scene. And the flashlight didn't reveal but small fragments when he let it sweep over the asphalt leading up to the dumpsters. The victim lay thrown up against the gray plastic, face sunken to the chest, arms spread wide and dried blood covering the hands. One leg oddly bent under the body, the other stretched out, soiled with the same dark and matted, crimson coloring. The odd angle of the neck had Nick theorizing about a broken neck, but there was something about the picture that he couldn't quite place. “You ok with the perimeter until Dave gets here?” he asked the taller man at his side. “We gotta clear a path to the DB.”

“Got it boss.”

Nick carefully walked up to the victim, seeing to it that he didn't step in any trace. Snapping photos with every step. The flash of the camera reflecting off the walls, making the scene explode with light for brief moments at a time. This time the letters 'SoS' where in full view, and undisturbed. He squatted to take a close-up of the writing, a lingering waft of turpentine in the air. It was paint, and if it matched the paint on the earlier scene, the connection was solid. He marked it with a yellow tab and photographed the area before he book a swab of the paint.

Not until then did he turn and take a good look at the victim. Stopping five feet in front of the vic, he looked down at the fabric around the loin. He furrowed his brow at the oddity of the imagine spread out before him. What was draped as a loin-cloth looked like a cheap, poor thread-count sheet. The flash barely bouncing any light off the coarse surface. Still, it was wrapped meticulously around the narrow hips. Like someone had made an effort to make it look a certain way. Up close, he saw the holes in the victim's hands, like thick nails had been driven through the fine-boned hands and feet. They were covered in thick crusts, showing that the victim had been alive for part of the torture. A wave of nausea had him swallow.

He had to look away for a moment, to gather himself, before he sank to his haunches, training his flashlight on the downcast face. The kid looked younger than the rest, the dark tone of his skin spoke of recent days in the sun. Most certainly male, considering the body build. When Nick bent down to take a look at the face he was convinced of the gender, the Adam's apple confirming his initial assumption.

There were streaks of blood running from the nostrils up towards the cheeks, indicating that the victim had bled while upside down. Marks on his forehead, like something had been pressed hard to the skin, had Nick's eyes widen in surprise, and in that precise moment Nick realized what he was looking at.

He rose and took a step back, regulating his breathing to stop the rage building in him. His hands clenched automatically, making the flashlight tremble from the hardened grip around it. His ribcage ached from holding back his hitching breath, heart pounding away and threatening to jump out and do a cha-cha. His eyes were locked on the scene; it all seemed surreal, like a medieval sacrifice. Something so sinister that his mind refused to fully process it. He had to tear his eyes away from the scene and actively push the churning emotions back. The rage mixing with sorrow and disgust, despair and horror. He finally managed to lock them off securely and separate himself from the dread. But his head refused to stop pounding in rhythm with his racing heart. He swallowed again, keeping his eyes shut and looking for safety in the self-inflicted darkness, and finally his body's reactions seemed to become more controlled by the orders of his mind; just a case, like any other. Get a freakin' grip!

He didn't open his eyes until he heard steps behind him. “Nick?”

He turned, forcing a small smile to his lips. “All yours, Super-Dave.”


	8. Chapter 8

Greg met him in the corridor when he returned to the lab with the evidence bags. He was flexing papers in front of him, looking excited. Warrick motioned for him to follow him into the empty layout room. He had tons of crap to go through, not that he expected to find anything useful, but the plastic bags around the vic had to be taken in, just in case the culprit had moved them or come in some kind of contact with them. From the initial photos and the EMT's tales, he suspected the kid had simply been hoisted out and left there. The best chance of getting evidence was the DB, not the junk he had to handle.

“Got something for me, Greg?” He turned to his task, awaiting a long and anecdotal report.

Greg stood partly behind him, the flexing of the papers had stopped and he looked genuinely surprised at the amount of possible evidence on the table.

“When you gonna go through all this? That's like half a dumpster you've got there.

“Yeah,” Warrick admitted, “pardon us for being thorough. And if you yap too much, I might put you on the load Sara's bringing in, she's still out there, in the dumpster.” Warrick grinned at the slight paling of the young CSI. “So what you got?”

“Got a hit in a paint shop in Henderson with the Madonna and the Sons of September. Was done a year ago but it was paid in cash, leaving no paper trail. And guess what, it was done under the counter, no receipts. Dude finally copped when we pulled out the fact that he'd been a suspect of stripping cars for a living. Brass promised he'd re-open the case if the dude didn't start talking. All the owner remembered was that the man ordering the job had a very old-fashioned name; Jeremiah or Jeremy. He remembered him being youngish, in his early thirties. I pulled all the drivers' licenses and pink slips and came up with two Transit owners with resembling names; Jeremiah Constantine, from Vegas and Jeremy Jensen from Henderson. I tried to call Nick but he's not returning my calls.”

Warrick took the papers from the flailing hand and leaned back in his chair, pleasantly surprised. “Good job, Sanders. You might just become a CSI yet. Now all you gotta do is sign on assuming responsibility of all this evidence here, and go through it while I go look for that Texan.”

He handed the suddenly deflated Greg a pen and pointed to where he needed to sign to keep the custody chain of the evidence intact.

“You tricked me into this, Brown.” Greg pointed the pen at him. “You want me back at the lab. You need me back at the lab. I'm never gonna see this case from anywhere except the inside of these walls.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hands and sighed.

Warrick quirked one eyebrow at him. “How about the candles?”

Greg's shoulders fell and he leaned forward slightly, looking at him with a tired face. “See this,” he said, pointing at his chest. “I haven't mastered the skill of self-cloning, yet. I am working on it. But until I've mastered that, I can't do but one thing at the time. I have faxed and phoned the manufacturers I found in Nevada and California. Thank you for your appreciation of my hard work.”

“And?” Warrick watched the exuberant newbie expectantly.

“And I got the chemical compounds' ratio from one manufacturer alone, one! The rest are going to send me samples and someone, not me, will have to melt and compare. Add to that that the one in California has a sub-contractor in Nevada but refused to give out the address or telephone-number. They will be asking them to forward a sample and then send it to us. That will take days. Did I forget to mention that I'm working on miracles too?” Greg wiggled the pen in his hand and Warrick pointed, impatiently, to the dotted line at the bottom of the sheet.

“Not mastered that either?” Warrick retrieved the pen and rose from the chair. “When Sara swings in, tell her to give me a call.” He started for the door, hoping to grab a coffee before he'd track down Nick and get the preliminary results from the autopsy.

“I can't believe that in a town, where you can get married and tattooed at anytime, you can't get the compounds of candles neatly listed,” Greg mumbled, mostly to himself.

Warrick threw a glance over his shoulder, seeing Greg walking over to the CD-player and inserting a disc.

“Welcome to Vegas,” Warrick leered and shut the door behind him to avoid being inflicted with permanent hearing loss from the loud music, he'd bet good money, would be shaking the walls in no time.

It took about ten seconds before he felt the vibrations make the glass wall zing, even down the hall.

 

He spotted Nick and Grissom walking down the corridor as soon as he got to the break room door. He stopped to hold the door open, waiting to see if Nick had time for a break or if he was seriously going for the drop dead while at work. Grissom was reading some printouts and Nick was walking by his side, hands stuck into his pockets, face totally blank. Upon seeing Warrick he hurried his steps. It struck Warrick that it looked that he couldn't wait to get away from Grissom. It wasn't the first time he had noticed the change in the relationship between the two - it used to be closer, almost flirting, he'd thought one time. Now Nick looked like he was tying himself up in knots to look detached and professional around their supervisor. In truth, it looked like he was doing his best to avoid interaction as much as possible. Another thing Warrick would have to pry the reasons for, from the stubborn Texan.

“Yo, bro,” he saluted when Nick got close enough. The small smile he received in return actually reached Nick's eyes.

Grissom looked up from his paper, seeming astounded that there were actual people around him.

“You sucked up all the java?” Nick asked, boxing his arm as he passed him in the doorway to the break room.

“Nah,” Warrick shot back. “Waited for my wifey to come make me some. You better get goin' or I'll spank you for insubordination.”

Grissom looked mildly amused as he filed in through the door that Warrick was holding up.

“Ain't seen you on your knees and begging, yet.” Nick held up the coffeepot, showing the amount left in it. “Check it out,” he leered. “Just about enough for me and Grissom.”

Warrick leaned up against the counter. “Hey bro, you may have a day's worth of seniority but I still have a couple of stones on you. Wanna wrestle it out?”

Nick smiled and took three cups from the cupboard, placing them on the table. “Stop whining, Rick. I'll let you have the Minnie Mouse cup an' all. Hate to see a grown man cry.”

Warrick really wanted to pinch him at that point, but he had to settle with grabbing the cup Nick had intended for himself and slide down to sit on Nick's favorite chair instead.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he held Nick under surveillance, all the time. The smile had gone into automatic mode and didn't reach his eyes any longer, and his jabs were not as heart-felt as they usually were. Nick just didn't make the effort to really hurt him. He glanced over at Grissom when Nick slid down to sit at table, muttering something under his breath while casting an amused glare in Warrick's direction.

Grissom looked just as subdued as Nick, like they were sitting in the same room with the Pacific in between them. Even the silence that descended seemed stifling.

“Where are we on CoD, ToD and ID?” He felt he had to start the conversation or they'd all start growing mold.

Without a word, Grissom pushed the binder and the papers on top of it toward him. Warrick looked down on the preliminary report. ToD had been 7 AM, CoD, asphyxiation combined with primary hemorrhage? He wrinkled his brow at the unusual dual cause.

“Doc couldn't decide?” He asked, looking at the two coffee sipping, very silent men, at the table.

“Check out the photos,” Nick replied tonelessly, stirring his coffee.

Warrick opened the binder and was met with the close-up of a wrist. The rusty coloring was gone and a wide hole was gaping at the center of the slender wrist. The next photo showed the other arm, with similar marks of something going through skin and bone. That kind of injury would ensure a sure and steady hemorrhage. “And the asphyxiation?”

“In that position, lungs tend to fall forward, pressing on the esophagus and finally you can't inhale,” Nick replied, his tone still eerily flat.

Warrick took a sip of the rapidly-cooling brew. The third picture made the pieces fall together for Warrick. Even the feet had gaping holes, through and through. Suddenly the coffee in his mouth tasted bitter and rancid. “Crucifixion?”

“Upside down,” Nick confirmed.

Warrick was utterly disgusted for the first time in a long while. He shut the binder and pushed it away.

“Crucifixion is an ancient form of execution,” Grissom lectured, seemingly non-fazed. “The procedure's origin lies in the root of our culture; The Roman Empire. According to Barbet, death was slow and humiliating, mostly due to asphyxiation because of inability to exhale. When crucified in a vertical, 90 degree angle, hanging from your arms it's said that the position of the arms and the weight put upon them makes the lungs hyper-extend and thus, exhalation close to impossible. But there are different forms of crucifixion; the method used by the Romans, entailed arms suspended in an angle of 60 to 70 degrees. Such an angle does not impede exhalation according to experiments performed by Zugibe. Thus assuring a slow and painful death due to factors like dehydration, embolism or cardiac arrest caused by the sodium/potassium imbalance .”

“Someone experimented?” Nick sounded revolted, his face finally showing some emotion. An emotion that Warrick shared fully.

“That's just majorly twisted,” he groaned, pushing the cup of coffee away. “How long did it take for the kid to die?”

Grissom looked at him, with the same stoic calm, like he were totally unaffected. “Due to the nails position, he bled out rather quickly and asphyxiations set in almost immediately from his upside down position.”

“Long enough to have him wonder why.” Nick said quietly, his hands flat on the surface of the table, like searching for some saner reality.

There was a fleeing expression of recognition of the deep pain in Grissom's eyes, before he reined it in, and diverted his eyes from Nick to Warrick.

Warrick wondered if Grissom realized that the apprentice had become the master at locking the unwanted inside to avoid revealing emotions.

“Who was he?” Warrick asked, his voice a testament to his dread.

“His name was Azar Bakr, twelve years old. Attending a Muslim boarding school in Henderson.”

Warrick's head shot up, realization starting to form. “Muslim?”

Nick nodded, still looking down to the table, fingers bending.

“I think we've found the common denominator,” Grissom spoke in an unusually low voice.”Religion.”

“The common denomination in this has nothing to do with religion or creed,” Nick said, shaking his head, eyes kept on the surface of the table. “It has nothing to due with any god, it is fanaticism in its most deranged form. Behind this lays nothing but fear, and the person committing these heinous crimes is handling his or her own fears by inflicting them onto others, in some kind of twisted revenge. On symbols of what is perceived as evil, symbols that are manageable. Kids, mere kids that happen to be regarded as different for some freakin' reason. It's belittling the victims for one purpose only; handling personal terror of the seemingly different or unknown. It's simply not dignified to be called human behavior. This, if anything, is abhorrent. And nobody tell me it's human, because it just ain't.”

He rose, the chair clattering against the floor, his jaw clenched enough to make the last words come out in a strange low and enraged growl. Then he visibly pulled himself together, looked at them apologetically and mumbled, “Excuse me, I gotta go.” With that, he turned and walked out, without looking back.

They both remained silently looking at the door swinging closed. Warrick was rattled by the clear, but tightly controlled, pain in Nick's voice. He turned to his boss; the man was looking pensively at the door. Like he'd seen something of a confirmation. But he said nothing.

Warrick felt his own jaw clench spasmodically. Torn between going to his lover and giving him the space he so clearly had signaled that he needed, he remained seated. The taste in his mouth was still rancid, nauseating in its bitterness. He found himself gripping the edge of the table, echoing Nick's trial to ground himself. It hadn't been that long since the color of his skin might have had him meet the same end. The color of his skin still did influence some people.

Grissom moved to gather the papers, methodically putting them into the binder and closing it.

The calmness of their supervisor rattled Warrick further and he had to stand up and get away. He was fast losing his objectivity, hatred seeping into him, claiming him. Hatred against something totally incomprehensible, performed by someone yet unknown.

“I'll get Brass and check out the addresses,” he said as he rose, marveling at his seemingly calm voice. A voice that revealed nothing of the emotions raging inside him. The need to lash out at something – someone - was consuming him and he had to physically move before he'd implode

“I'll file the binder,” Grissom stated and Warrick looked at him. Astounded at the logical brain in function, the brain that obviously was capable of divesting anything to a logical skeleton, devoid of reaction, and process it like a machine. He merely nodded, unable to speak and walked out.

His jaw had begun to ache.

 

 

Nick chided himself for losing it. No need to show anybody how this case affected him, chances were he'd be pulled off if he went off the deep end again. He rounded the corner to get to the filing room, there was one last thing he needed to confirm about the first case. He had his hand on the handle when fast, high-heeled steps clattered behind him, making him turn.

“Hey, Catherine,” he smiled at the woman coming his way with a binder in her hand. “Heard you got stuck with suspicious circs and an old lady.”

“Don't remind me, the grand-daughter killed her Grandma because she needed her bling-bling. I just closed it. How's your case coming along? ID'd the latest vic yet?” She was looking at him, her eyes trained steadily on him. Like if she were trying to read between the lines.

“Yeah, young Muslim kid, seems -.” He trailed off, seeing Warrick appear from behind the corner. Face hard and his steps long and hurried. One fist was opening and shutting as he passed.

His eyebrows flew up to a surprised arc at the speed with which Warrick was traversing the floor; a testament to the man's anger. Looking at Catherine he realized she'd seen it too. The door to the men's room was slammed shut.

“That bad?” Cath asked, eyes now on the shut door.

“I dunno, better check 'im out in case he's about to blow a fuse,” Nick replied and took off in the same direction.

“I'd appreciate you filling me in, Nick. Anytime.”

Nick swiveled around on his heels. “Griss has the file in the break room, check it out!”

“About everything, Nick,” Cath smiled.

“Oh,” Nick hesitated for a moment, not quite sure what she was fishing for. “All you have to do is ask.” He shrugged disarmingly at his sassy colleague, smiling at her, knowing there really was no point in trying to hide anything from Catherine.

“Right,” Catherine said and smiled sadly, before turning to get some filing done.

Nick creased his brow in confusion. Something was definitely off with that 'right', but he had a man to see to.

 

 

Warrick was bent over the sink with water running. Hands covering his face, water dripping off them.

Nick closed the door behind him and Warrick looked to the side and groaned, returning to fill his hands with water and burying his face in them.

“You a'ight, bro?” Nick walked up to rest his hands on the borders of the neighboring basin, looking at his man from the side. The sharp light revealed deep lines of wrinkled skin at the corner of his eyes, as if he were squeezing them tightly shut.

“Yeah,” came the curt reply when Warrick shut the water off and mimicked Nick's stance with hands resting on the basin edge. He kept his face down, looking at the water swirling down the drain.

Nick wanted to touch, wanted to put his hand on the shoulder, drape it around the neck or just lay it on the tense back. All he could do was lean in, close enough, to let his own arm touch Warrick's. He half expected Rick to move away. He didn't, instead he remained, resting his warmth against Nick, turning his wet face to look at him. “That could have been me just a couple of decades ago. Black men were sanctioned prey.”

“I know,” Nick met the green eyes, nodding with understanding. “You want out?”

Warrick straightened up and pulled paper-towels out of the container with force. “Out of what?” he asked, toweling his face dry.

Nick's brow creased, this he hadn't expected. “The case, man. But maybe you have other things you wanna get outta?”

Warrick turned to him, consternation wrinkling his brow further. “What the fuck you yappin' about, Stokes? Ever seem me quit on a case?”

“Hey, did I say that?” Nick let go of the basin and turned to meet his man eye to eye. “I just didn't get what you meant with 'outta what'.”

Warrick looked around the room, letting his eyes linger at the one closed stall before he stepped up close to him. “Y'know what, Stokes. We're really gotta get out of this restroom before Hodges makes a movie about us hanging out in here. And I'll get out first, you stay and go potty or whatever. Because if I come out now, with you in tow -”, he paused, grinning. “We might just hand him a script.”

Nick took two rapid side-steps, brushing up against his man, and latched onto the door-handle. Blocking the exit for the leering man. “Nuh uh, you stay in here, I'll handle Hodges,” he boxed Rick's arm. “And here I thought Griss was more your type.”

Warrick crossed his arms over his chest, laughing deep in his throat. “You tryin' to play me, pretty boy?”

“Dude, you're already played.” Nick opened the door and walked out, shaking his head, unable to hide his grin.

 

The smile died when he went through the first victim's file. He wondered why he hadn't spotted it right away. The young black male was born to a single mother who had died when he was five. Then he'd been through fifteen foster-homes until he turned fourteen. Then he disappeared under the radar, only to reappear with solicitation and prostitution on his rap-sheet. Being sent to a Juvenile Correctional facility for a couple of months seemed to have worked; he had not been in the system since. The ones offering to take his remains were the Islamic congregation Masjid As-Sabur. Interviews with the Imam showed the boy had recently converted and that a member of the congregation had hired him as an electrician's apprentice/helper, despite his young age. They were aware of his former life, but according to the Imam the boy had managed to stay clean for at least half a year. Then he had just disappeared, without a word to anybody. He'd shared an apartment with two males in their early twenties, both members of the congregation. Probably acting as role-models and brothers. Nothing odd had come up in the search. The two young males had solid alibis for the entire week. They'd been on a convention in San Fransisco. A dozen witnesses had affirmed that.

Nick sank to a stool. Resting his elbows on the table. It was like walking an eternal circle, round and round and always leading up with nothing tangible. They'd talked to the one who hired the boy, asked about job locations, new friends and routines. Nothing had come up. What they kept missing, Nick had no idea, they just needed to dig deeper. But would there even be time to do that before the next corpse?

He wrote up the Imam's contact info and placed the folder back in its place. He didn't expect to get much more info, but maybe, just maybe something had been missed. Still, it felt like they'd never get a break on this case.

Shutting the door he heard Warrick's raised voice all the way from the layout room. He sounded about to blow. Wrinkling his brow, he steered his steps in that direction, almost trampling over a skittish-looking Mandy in his hurry. “Sorry, Mandy,” he said, taking her elbow to steady her. The lab tech responded with a trembling smile. Her eyes flickered to the left and he looked to see several day-shifters pausing in the labs along the corridor. Curious eyes following the two of them.

“You ai'ght?”He asked, letting go of his steadying grip.

“You better get in there,” she motioned with her head towards the sound. “Ecklie's on a war-path and I think Warrick's about to tear him a new one.”

As if on cue, he heard Warrick's angry “You gotta be kiddin' me!” With raised eyebrows in Mandy's direction, he walked towards the raised voices.

“Wazz up?” he asked when he sauntered into the room. Three pairs of eyes landed on him. Warrick's looking downright dangerous, Sara's like she was about to say something that probably would put her on top of Ecklie's black list all over again, and Ecklie's were just flat, but determined.

“Good thing you showed up, Stokes. Did you check the clock lately?” Ecklie's voice was dry and on the verge of sarcasm.

He let his eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. It was 16 P.M. They should have clocked out hours ago. He cleared his voice. “This case is -”

“I just got off a meeting,” Ecklie interrupted. “The entire Graveyard has maxed out on overtime weeks ago. After our habitual resident Grissom, you Stokes, are the worst this month. Sidle and Brown close runners up. I've sent the rest of your shift home already. I'm not gonna lose time debating with the rest of you.”

“How long have we been pointing out we need more CSIs?” Warrick growled. “Three years? Don't help we have to stand in line to get results from the lab. The lab techs are up to their armpits with non-processed samples. Tell the paper-pushers that!”

“Brown,” Ecklie warned. “It's either going home or quitting, your choice.”

Sara's lips moved and she had to clam them shut.

“Now hold on.” Nick raised his hand. “We're hunting down a possible serial-killer. On top of that I had a robbery I dusted for fingerprints a couple of hours ago. Warrick was out on a suspected arson earlier, it's not like we're not pulling our weight around here. And what will the press say if we took time off and let another kid get whacked?”

Ecklie looked at him, managing to have it seem like he was looking down his nose at some inferior species. “Have you seen anything in the press, Stokes? This is not a high profile case. Not until the right color of skin or the right socio-economic class is involved. Until then, the higher ups will tell you to go home. Or you'll be suspended long enough to balance the budget. Your choice. I have Travis sorting through Sanders samples, the fingerprint you found are being run through all databases. I hear the hairs you pulled from the sheet turned out to the dog-hairs. Where you wanna go with that? Vartann is going to check out the addresses. Everything is under control. If something comes up, you Nick, will be the first to know. If not, you all report tomorrow at midnight, for a debriefing. Tonight we'll have swing take your shift, with Sofia on call. We need to discuss Graveyards OT and the ramifications of it. Days don't have the same issues your shift has, I need to know why. Now, you're all clocked out, whether you want it or not.”

With a dismissive gesture he walked out, slamming the door on them.

Sara exhaled heavily, her fists loosening.

“You okay there, Sara?” Nick asked, tilting his head enough to catch her eyes.

She smiled a shaky smile.”You have no idea how much that man pisses me off.”

“It was kinda obvious, Sar.“ Nick walked over to her, draping an arm around her shoulders, dragging her towards the door. “I thought I'd have to get the fire-extinguisher there for a while. C'mon, we'll have to clock out, or we'll be in deep. You comin' bro?” He looked over his shoulder at the man left in the middle of the room.

Warrick nodded, kicking at the leg of the table. “I'll just put the files in the vault and clock out. But I'm not liking this. Not one fucking bit.”

 

It wasn't until he climbed into his SUV that the exhaustion caught up with him. He checked the folded paper in his pocket and let his head fall back to rest. Closing his eyes, he felt the strain of the long days seep into his bones. Flexing his fingers he felt they were oddly tensed and uncooperative, sluggish in their reactions. He didn't know how long he's been sitting there, with eyes closed when his cell-phone went off. He picked it out of his pocket, never opening his eyes.

“Stokes.”

“Don't even try it, Stokes.” Rick's voice sounded close, and pissed.

“What?”

“I knew it. You just played along and have some plan, dont'cha?”

He opened his eyes and looked around, wondering where Warrick was at. “Wha- no!”

The snort was talkative. He might be able to pull some things over with Rick, but far less than he wanted to.

“Look three cars to the left, bro. I've been sitting here since you came out. Waiting for your move. Either you intend on sleeping in your car or you're up to something.”

Nick sighed. “That's not -”

“You have two options, either you get outta the car and drag your sorry ass over to mine, or I come get you. You're in no condition to drive, those bags under your eyes probably won't even let you see the road, man. The only place you're gong is where I tell you to. Now listen up, you've got five seconds to pack up your stuff and get over here. Pull a stunt and I'm gonna tail you, all day if that's what it takes.”

Nick let out a shaky laugh. There was no doubt Rick would do exactly what he said he'd do. “Got any food back at your place?”

There was a low purr-like chuckle. Voice low and soothing as his man replied: “Got everything you need, babe.”


	9. Chapter 9

They drove in silence, Nick slumped down in the seat, head leaning up against the headrest. Traffic was a bitch and Warrick cursed when they got stuck behind a red light. There was a long line of cars in front of them and he realized there was no way they'd reach the intersection before the light turned red again.

The heat was oppressive, more humid than usual. The sun beat down on the asphalt, pressing the exhaust fumes from the multitude of cars to a thick layer that seemed to hover over the streets. He was already sweating, despite the, less than well-functioning, A/C. The afternoon sun reached out with its blazing light to even the darkest corners of Sin City, not that Warrick believed it mattered much to the ever-beating pulse. Day or night, sun or rain, Vegas kept bristling with life, and death. There were enough dark lairs to hide and bide time in - sheltered but never safe. Safety was a notion that Warrick had ceased to believe in, if he ever had.

He let his eyes roam over to Nick. The man was slouched in his seat, head lolled to the side, all tension gone. Nick's eyes were closed and soft grunting sounds left him. Warrick grinned, the man had actually fallen asleep. He wondered if he should drive him around for a while, let him have his catnap before he'd be forced to drag him out of the car and into bed.

Thick, black clouds hung low over the mountains, a wall of gray mist was obfuscating the horizon. The thick wall was suddenly brightened by a flash exploding across the sky. He muted the stereo, rolled down the window and waited for the sound as the light turned green. The sound rolled in; a soft muffled swarm. When the light turned green again he was out of the intersection, on his way home. The lightnings crackling and illuminating the dark clouds that crept closer and closer.

When he had parked at his house he turned to look a the man, snoring softly besides him. The moment the sound of the engine stopped, Nick stirred, moving uneasily in his seat to get away from the beam of sun reaching his closed eyes. Long lashes fluttered jerkily before revealing the hazed brown underneath. He blinked twice, rapidly, before turning to Warrick, a mortified pout emerging.

“I - uh,” he cracked.

“Went nighty night on me? Oh yeah. Get it now, why I had to stop you from driving around? Scraping you off the asphalt would be so messy.” He leaned in, grabbed Nick's neck and shook it gently.

Nick mumbled, slouching forward and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Wasn't sleepin', just restin' m'eyes.”

“Right,” Warrick grinned, looking around for possible witnesses before he kissed the sweaty temple of his Texan tease. “Want me to carry your fat ass over the threshold?”

Nick chuckled, hands still over his eyes. “I'm not gonna live this one down, am I?”

“Not if you don't get that ass out of this car and inside.” Opening the car door, he laughed at Nick's groan as he slid out, still groggy and unsteady on his legs.

Warrick shook his head at the sight. “Man, you look like someone dry-tumbled you and forgot to add fabric softener.”

“Speaking from experience?” Nick smiled from under his lashes. “I'm just starved. And you promised me food. I swear I'm gonna spank you if it turns out to be nuked tomato-soup.”

Warrick pushed the slightly wobbly man onwards. “Y'know I'm no gourmet-cook, what'ya expect? A three course French dinner?” He opened the door and two worried brown eyes turned to his. “Not soup Nicky, but nuked it will be. Got a couple of TV-dinners in the freezer and the makings of a salad. A salad you'll be whipping together while I take on the more manly task of nuking.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “I knew there was a reason for you wanting me here. The killer tomato attack scaring you? Need your man to protect yah?” He toed off his shoes with a yawn.

Warrick laughed and threw his arm around the slouching shoulders, pulling Nick into a bear hug. “You're such a pretty boy, babe.”

Nick threw him a mock glare and freed himself to get to the kitchen. “Am so gonna let them tomatoes loose on you for that alone, Rick, and then I'll let Hodges have a go at you.”

 

With the thunder rolling in the background, they sat on the couch, feet up on the coffee-table and watched a tivo'd documentary on helping wild birds. Warrick found it hilarious, and he half expected Nick to leap out and look for an abandoned bird-baby to implement his theoretical knowledge on. In fact, he was watching Nick more than the documentary. Watching him smile at the chirps of the little ones; a soft heart-breaking expression on the tired face. Dimples deepening at the survived birds taking off into freedom, stretching their wings and returning to their natural habitat. Nick's plate lay empty in his lap, a beer in his hand, resting on the thigh. Eyes drooping, yet never leaving the screen, he even read the after texts with interest, the dark eyes taking everything in.

Warrick draped his arm around the man, pulling him into his hold. “You're such a geek, Nicky.”

He had intended it as a taunt, but his voice came out all tender and syrupy. He laughed at himself, removing the plate from Nick's lap, freeing him from the empty beer can and burying his face in the crook of his man's neck, to top it off he simply had to place a kiss on the skin at his reach. “And you're cuter than the baby birds, which were damned ugly most of them. Dangerously cute for a man your age.“

“Cute?” Eyes flashed in his direction. “Who you calllin' cute, honey-bun?” Nick chuckled deep in his throat, landing a wet, sloppy peck on Warrick's nose tip.

Warrick tackled him to the floor. Nick laughed when he was mercilessly tickled to his knees aside the coffee table. Panting for air, he tried to swat the hands away when Warrick got his fingers under the tee and pulled out a second string of coughed chuckles. Then he just held his man's waist, waiting for him to get his bearing back. If that was at all possible? A giggling heap of man on his floor was something Warrick would treasure for future needs.

“You're so juvenile, dude!” Nick looked up at him over his shoulder, dimples deep and voice breathless.

“Says the one on his knees on the floor?” Warrick taunted. “I'd stop yappin' if I were you. C'mon man, time to get a shower and hit the sack. It's late and goddammit, you're gonna sleep if I so have to pop you a serious one.” He pulled Nick up, grinning as the shorter man pushed his tee into his pants, a shyness in him that was darned endearing. Not that he'd ever tell Nick that.

“Ai'ght, boss. I'll just clean up in the kitchen, coz' man, what was that moldy stuff in the back of the fridge?” Nick rubbed his palms on his jeans, shaking his head.

“Pancakes,” Warrick retorted dryly. “And not one word outta you, wise-ass! Get going! I'll take care of the kitchen. Everything for the pretty boy.”

Nick retaliated, making a sudden swift movement towards the couch - an evil grin forming as he swirled back and hit Warrick square in the head with a perfectly aimed pillow.

 

He nicked himself shaving, right on the chin, sending blood dripping. He muttered and looked in the mirror, trying to assess the damage done. He was so tired that his hands were shaking slightly. He pressed on the minute cut with his fingertip, making it stop before he wiped his nose with his hand.

Nick wasn't sure if it was his tiredness or the smell of blood that brought, what he'd been successfully repressing all day, back with force. He gripped the razor harder, trying to steady it while he finished his task. But images of the dead kid seeped in through his determination. That kid would never have to shave, someone had seen to that. He swore quietly, trying to steer his thoughts away from the brutal slaying. He found himself staring into the mirror, while images of the last kid hanging upside down, bleeding out, refused to leave him alone. The kid moved, called out for him and seemed to ask why he hadn't stopped it? He shook his head, letting the razor fall into the sink, screwing his eyes tightly shut. When had the kid realized he was going to die? Had he been hoping until the end? Like he had been? Hanging on to the last glimmer of hope, even if he knew it would be over. Had his heart sped up, hammering against his ribcage when air was slowly running out? What had his last thoughts, wishes been? That it was all a bad dream? That he was imprisoned in some freakish nightmare? Had he said his good-byes? Or had he left this world in utter despair?

He groaned, resting on his hands on the counter, bending and letting his head fall forward and blood rush to it. The rolling thunder in the background increased in strength, moving closer and closer. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, forcing his mind away from the pictures of a crucified kid, but he wasn't able to. The fact that he had some ideas of how that kid felt those last moments ripped his heart out; it was one experience he'd not wish upon anyone. Knowing death is imminent, just a moment away was harsh when unexpected like that. You weren't supposed to die at twelve, not like that. All alone and terrified. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. Death should come when accepted, when one had made peace with the idea, accepted that the end was inevitable. A twelve year old had no chance to embrace that concept, maybe he hadn't even understood? But Nick knew he had, just as clearly as he had, down in the box. Why had he been spared and not those kids?

There was a loud sound that had him open his eyes with surprise. It sounded like a gun going off. Then the light flickered and went out. A crammed space, air running out and the ear-shattering sound when he shot the light out and was immersed in darkness was enough to bring him right back in the box. Actually feeling the air thinning out. His breath hitched once and he tensed, needing to gain control of the increasing shaking of his hands. He knew it was not real. And still it had him breathe faster and faster to get what he needed. It was always the uncontrollable that did this to him, ripped the air out of his chest and had his body react out of control. He knew, dammit he knew that it was all in his head, but it didn't help here in the humid darkness, reminding him so much of his intended, early grave. Holding his breath he counted, if he made it to ten he'd get through this one, only to ten!

“Nick?”

Warrick's voice from the doorway had him jump and lose his count. He reflexively drew in air, hungrily. It felt like it didn't quite reach his lungs, but it was an improvement from the escalating breathing rhythm of before. Leaning down to rest his head on the counter he concentrated on getting his heartbeat to calm down and the tension in his muscles to dissolve.

Warrick's hand was on his shoulder, grounding him and he nodded jerkily. Signaling that he would be all right.

“Shit, Nicky! I didn't find the flashlight, fuck! Hang on bro, you'll pass this one too. Just hang on.”

Nick opened his eyes, the hand on his skin was warm and reassuring. “I'm fine, Rick, I'm fine.”

The words came out like jagged groans and betrayed him. He looked at Warrick, the flashlight standing on its end on the counter, lighting up the ceiling. Warrick's face was in the shadows, his expression difficult to read. Nick tried a smile, nodding anew, trying to convince his man that he was fine.

Warrick said nothing, he never did. But his palm rested on Nick's shoulder-blade, warm and comforting like the blue woobie from his childhood. A moan escaped him at the fact that he was flipping out in front of his lover, using him as his personal woobie. He groaned at the thought, this was so not what Warrick should have to handle, ever.

 

Warrick had jumped at the hard sound of the lightening striking, somewhere close enough to immediately shut the electricity off. Looking out the window he noticed that the entire block was dark, not one single light in any of the small houses. That meant that there was no use checking the fusebox, the problem laid elsewhere. He opened the drawer where he stored his flashlight and found nothing. Cursing under his breath, he went for his spare-kit in the lounge, hitting his knee various times on furniture in his way. The fact that Nick hadn't said a word or come out of the bathroom was odd. He didn't hear water running either, so he hadn't gotten to the shower yet. And he'd been in there a long time.

With the flashlight in hand, illuminating the room with a harsh penetrating light, he made his way to the bathroom's partly-open door.

There was the tell-tale sound of rushed breaths, a slight wince as Nick tried to hold the air in his lungs and stop the threatening panic-attack. Instinctively he called out his lover's name, realizing immediately that he'd broken his concentration. He set the flashlight on the counter, pointing up to the ceiling. Not wanting to intrude on Nick's personal space while he was battling his body's reactions. When tired like this, Nick was always more susceptible to the triggers. And right now he was surrounded with triggers; the sharp sound, similar to a shot fired off, the darkness that wouldn't budge and the hot, humid air inside the room. Laying a hand on the bare shoulder, Warrick felt the tension ripple through the man bent over the sink. He cursed himself for not realizing that earlier. Rubbing the shoulder he excused himself for not arriving earlier. Not that he could do much but be there, wait for Nick to fight it out.

His voice was raw when he assured Warrick he was fine. The slightly higher pitch and the tremble was enough for Warrick to know how bad it was. Nick's body was taut, all muscles ready for the fight or flight. Small sounds left him when he breathed in and out, meticulously trying to get enough air. Finally he managed and looked at Warrick from the side, a trembling smile on the pale face. Warrick stepped closer, making Nick's flank rest on him. He had stripped all but his boxers and the warm skin of his lover had its usual effect on him. He couldn't believe his own body, reacting so promptly to Nick, even if the man was struggling for his breath. He had to mentally whack himself over the head.

The tension started to fade from the hunched shoulders and Nick let his head fall forward, breath running easier now.

Warrick took the opportunity to shed his clothes quickly, he'd have to help Nick shower. Or at least be present to help ground him.

The light flickered back on and Warrick blinked at the sudden sharpness of it. Nick moved with a soft groan. Raising his head and shaking it. Warrick wanted to ask, needed to ask what he could do. Knowing Nick he knew that it would only piss him off and have him deny anything at all had happened. The hardest thing was really to let it all slide and not ask, never ask. He decided to turn the flashlight off to at least do something useful.

Nick rubbed his eyes, before he turned to Warrick with an apologetic smile. “S'sorry I'm hoggin' your bathroom, Rick. I'll be out so you can take a shower.”

So now he was in the evasive mood? Warrick shook his head and let his arms slide around the waist of the man he really wanted to both whack over the head and just hold right now. He pulled the tense back flush to his own chest. “No Nicky. We'll take a shower together. You're not exactly fresh like daisies yourself.” He moved his hand to peel his man's boxer-briefs off.

Nick leaned into his grip and turned his head, a tentative smile emerging. “You wanna get down and dirty?”

Warrick didn't even respond, his eyes had fallen on the tiny cut on the chin. “You cut yourself?” The episode must have even been worse than he'd thought.

”Your razors are not really top notch, bud. I slipped. Ya sayin' I'm not pretty anymore?” Nick was flapping his eyelashes exaggeratedly, a cheeky grin deepening the creases around his eyes in an other attempt to muddy the waters. But Warrick had seen them all and he continued to refuse to respond to his man's efforts to hide the fact that he was having flashbacks more often. There was no denying that the nightmares were more frequent, the episodes of sudden panic more severe. Like they had been at the beginning, when he started back at work. He'd come home totally wiped out for at least the first three weeks, tired from keeping the facade intact.

Warrick pressed the pad of his thumb against the small nick on the jutted chin. “You're one ugly dude, man. It's just Hodges that has a thing for puppy-eyed Texans.” He grinned mischievously at the shorter man. Nick turned and melted into his hold, laughing against his shoulder. Then his hands trailed down Warrick's body, cupping his ass-cheeks and pulling him, through the curtains, into the shower. The fast change in Nick's mood had Warrick stunned to silence.

“C'mon babe, I'll wash your back.” Nick purred in his ear, flicking the water on. The first sprayings were cold, making Warrick gasp and sober up.

“What's going on Nicky?” Despite warning bells going off, he draped his hand around the other man's neck, his body reacting to the heat pressed to him. The water was warm now, and soothing as it pelted down, like soft summer rain, on his skin.

“Shhhh.” Nick blew hot air to his neck, grabbing for the sponge. Then he began lathering Warrick up with long, unhurried strokes down his neck, one hand holding his hip steady. Dark eyes locked with his. But what shook Warrick to the core, was the deep sorrow in them.

“Nicky,” he tried to reason again, but the only response was a kiss to his lips, hands moving to his front. Soapsuds trickling down his body, leaving musky and white trails in their wake. He cursed himself as his arousal became visible, and Nick smiled and let lips trail along his collarbone.

“Like whipped cream on chocolate,” Nick mumbled, pulling him into an embrace and kissing him wetly. A hand on the small of his back, sliding downwards to cup his ass.

The soft lips against his, the strong hands around him, pulling him flush to the muscular body had Warrick's head reeling. The suspicion that Nick was not doing this out of his own volition melted away at the sensation of a hungry tongue in his mouth. And he gave as good as he got, letting his hand wander over the body he knew so well. Sensing the taut muscles, enjoying every sinew and arch of the man pressed to him. He was hard, so hard he felt every move Nick made echo in his erection. But Nick wasn't, he was not half as aroused he should be. The warning bells kicked in, loud and clear, and Warrick unwillingly broke the kiss.

Remaining close Warrick tightened his embrace of the shorter man, nestling his leg in between Nick's. Forcing him to put his weight on him and lean the head on his shoulder.

“What's goin' on Nicky?” His voice remained low, but the tone was one of determination, he needed to know if Nick was simply going through the motions because he believed this was what Warrick expected of him?

Nick tensed in his hold, hands stilling. “Huh?”

“Why are you doing this? Is it really because you want to? Or because you think I want it?” He tilted his head enough to speak close to the ear of his lover. “I don't want it like that.”

Nick was out of his embrace so fast that Warrick swayed on his feet. He witnessed the anger flare over his man's face, like the rolling thunder in the background. it played out for a moment, to then ebb out and leave only an odd tension in the air.

“I'm so sorry,” Nick said flatly, replacing the sponge in its holder. “I'll get out and let you -”

“Whoa!” Warrick interrupted. “What the fuck is going on here? Did I say I wanted you outta here? What the fuck, Nicky?” He had to physically stop the man from leaving, blocking the path with his body.

“You pretty much did,” Nick sneered. “And you don't hafta tell me twice, I get it. I'm outta here.”

“Hell no!” Warrick cursed under his breath, gripping the man trying to escape around the wrist. Getting tangled onto the plastic drape, he pulled and it came down with a ripping sound, landing partly on his shoulder. He shoved it off, making it fall to the tiles before he kicked it to the side. “You're staying right here and dealing with this, what ever the fuck it is. I don't wanna fuck you when you're all wiped out, that's not what I'm about and you know it. I don't need you to fuck me either. Nick, that's not an obligation.”

Nick shook his wrist loose; making a last attempt to flee but nearly fell on his face on the slippery plastic. He had to reach out a hand and steady himself on Warrick's chest. Then the lights went out again and Warrick reached out for Nick, but he was out of his reach.

“You promised,” Nick said, the defeat in his voice so clear in the darkness. Warrick found him turned against the wall. Leaned up against it, with his back to him, hands flat on the tiles. Warrick let his hand trail along Nick's frame, searching him out.

The words and the defeat had Warrick's stomach in knots. “Promised what?”

“Not to look at me differently.” The words were barely audible, drenched in the sound of sizzling water. Warrick turned it off. A coldness was spreading in his veins. How had this got so screwed up all of a sudden? He wasn't looking differently at Nick, was he? Was he sheltering him, smothering him without knowing? Afraid to damage an already tormented soul? Shaking his head, he stepped closer to the man. Close enough for Nick to feel his body heat. “No, Nick, that's not it.”

“This was exactly why I didn't want you to know.” The tone was laconic, like just stating the bitter facts. “I can't even touch you now?”

Warrick pressed him to the wall, gripped the wrists and held them captive, restricting Nick's every movement. “Nicky, now you're gonna listen up close. This has nothing to do with what happened to you, it has to do with what's happening to you right now. You're fucking falling apart before my eyes. You have nightmares, you don't sleep. You're exhausted. You fell asleep in the car, dammit. And now you wanna fuck?”

“Rick.”

“Shut up. I'm not fucking anybody that can barely stand on their feet. And I never just fuck you, Nicky. It's just not sex with you, you schmuck. That's why I can't do it, not when you're using sex as some fucking crutch.”

“Rick,” the voice was low and trembling now, as if holding back tears. It ripped through Warrick's core, like a knife sharpened with red-hot guilt.

“I want you inside me, I want to feel something other than -,” Nick's voice trailed off and he audibly inhaled. “I need something to get rid of the images in my head. I just need to feel something else. Something that's not pain and dirt and death.” He swallowed, continuing in a hoarse voice. “If I can't have that, just lemme see you hard for me, wanting me. Lemme me see me doin' something good, something that makes a difference. I'm not – demanding anything else, Rick. I just wanna get rid of the pictures. I wanna see you when I close my eyes, not - not what I am seeing.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Nicky!” He let go of the hands, draping his arm around Nick's middle, holding him up as he buried his head at the crook of his man's neck and shoulder. The tendon on Nick's neck was hard and vibrating, as if he were swallowing compulsively. Letting his free hand massage the tensed thigh, he breathed into the neck. Placing chaste kisses on the wet skin, he closed his eyes and cursed himself; he should have known. His hand moved slowly from the hip to the leg, sliding over hot skin and taut muscle, trying to loosen the man up. Help him, in any way, to get out of the dark hole he'd slid into. He totally lacked words at this point and all he could offer was physical comfort.

When Nick groaned softly, Warrick let his hand climb up to the top of the leg, fingertips playing with the soft skin on the inside of the thigh. He kissed a line along the shoulder when he felt his man's burgeoning erection. Letting his fingers slide over the silky skin, fisting him he felt the vein throb against his palm and had him pull his man closer still. Pressing his lips to Nick's temple, he murmured, “I'll get 'em pictures outta your head, babe, I promise.”

Nick leaned his head on the shoulder behind him. “Inside me, please, Rick.”

He couldn't see Nick's eyes in the darkness, and that was what prevented him from obeying. The heat of the body in his arms, the mass of man had him hard all over. His body had taken over the rational thinking and it simply obeyed the lure of Nick's body. Kissing the skin within his reach, he listened to Nick's breathing, acutely aware of the increased rhythm and the undulating of his man's hips against his own. But he wouldn't lose control, not this time. This was all about Nick and it was up to him to make it so. He needed to see Nick's eyes. “Not yet baby, not yet. Where's the lube?”

“Bottom shelf of the rack, lemme get it.” Nick reached back, almost losing his balance and hitting his knee on the wall. He groaned in pain and Warrick counteracted the shift of weight by turning them around enough to lean sideway up against the wall while he tightened his hold around his man. “Easy, Nicky, easy. We're gonna take this slow, nice and slow.”

“Shut up, Warr,” Nick winced. “I want you hard and fast, as deep as you can get.”

His body was reacting acutely to the closeness of his man and the breathy words of raw need, while his mind screamed at him to slow down and not get lured into Nick's frenzy. He needed to control this, Nick was too jittery to reflect on his own well-being.  
.  
“Gimme that lube,” he ordered, voice thick and low from pure lust. With an arm over Nick's chest, he lubed, first himself, abundantly, and then Nick's, cock up with long slow strokes. Biting down on his lip at the sensation of the welcomed hard thickness. “So fuckin' hard babe, so fucking hard for me.” He murmured, lips pressed to wet hot skin and jolts of pleasure taking a joyride along his spine.

Nick's fast short breaths, punctuated with soft monosyllabic grunts, drummed against his ear and he was ready to ravage the man. It took all his will-power to hold back and not push inside, hard and insistent. Nick was standing with his legs apart, leaning up against him. Skin against skin, grinding and taunting. Nick's hand groping at Warrick's ass, massaging the cheeks and driving Warrick to rub up against him.

When his lubed finger found its way inside Nick, the lights flickered on and he had to close his eyes from the brightness. Nick was slowly opening for him, moving his hips around his finger, tight and burning hot. He opened his eyes, letting them get used to the harsh light. The back of Nick's head lay on his shoulder; face slightly flushed, tongue peaking out between lips in concentration. The sight had his heart surge.

“Open your eyes, Nicky.”

Long, dark lashes fluttered, revealing black pools of enlarged pupils underneath half-closed lids. The gaze a hazed plea. Warrick groaned helplessly, the warmth starting to pool dangerously in his groin. His legs were trembling with the effort of keeping them both up. He had to lean his shoulder up against the tiled wall, for stability, when he inserted two more fingers and scissored his man open, teasing the prostate with his bent fingers.

“Can't wait, Rick, please.” Nick's neck arched and his eyes slid close, hips jerking back and forward. Fingertips digging into Warrick's flesh, pulling him closer. “Please, inside.”

“Bend your knees,” Warrick panted dangerously close to losing his already precarious control. That couldn't happen, not this time, this time it was all about Nick. “On the floor babe, and spread your legs for me and I'll give you what you need. You trust me on that, Nicky?”

He felt a jerky nod against his shoulder, followed by a long exhale, sounding like a needy mewl.

He pulled his fingers out, eliciting a growl of protest from his man. “Look at me Nicky, turn your head and look at me, or we're not doing this.”

The grip on his ass tightened and Nick tilted his head to the side. Eyes opening, a clear desperation lurking under the lashes. He claimed the lips he considered his and his alone, in a deep kiss. He slid down the tiles, pulling the shorter man with him. They were too fucking old for this kind of gymnastics, but he was too far gone to care. Landing with his knees on the crumpled plastic drape, legs between Nick's tensed thighs, he barely registered how crammed up they were, close to the tiled corner.

Nick's hands left his ass and moved to grip and position him. He'd pushed the head in before Warrick had the time to react. With a low hiss of discomfort, he pushed himself halfway over Warrick. The heat so tight it took his breath away. “Nick, fuck, take it slow, don't hurt yourself!”

He had no way of stopping him; the man leaned forward, resting his hands against the wall and pushed onto him with a growl.

Warrick breath hitched, he tried to still the man, mind screaming at him to stop this, that Nick was hurting himself. He felt his own erection start to fade at the fear.

“Rick, dammit, relax,” Nick grunted, his legs shivering and Warrick found the situation absurd.

”Nick,” he leaned in closer, wrapping both arms around the slippery and wet body. “I'm not doing this if you hurt yourself, not gonna happen like that.” Holding the body still, he sensed the shivers running through it.

“Damn you, Rick, damn you!” The voice was deep and desperate, fingers splayed out on the tiles, aiding in pushing his body closer to Warrick's.

“Then lemme do this, you just hang on for the ride, baby,” he murmured to the back. “Let go of that wall, you're gonna whack your head against the faucet and I'm not having that. You gotta let go and lean back on me.”

Pulling the man's back to rest on his chest, he tensed his legs to rise enough to get the right angle. The movement had Nick's body quake and shiver. “That's right, babe,” Warrick continued in a coaxing whisper. “Just like that. Now you gotta lean your head on my shoulder and look at me. I'm not gonna move until I can see your eyes, Nick. Not gonna happen.”

Nick leaned in closer, hands cupping around the back of Warrick's thighs in search of support. His head finally landed on Warrick's shoulder, eyes open and trained on his. Ring muscle massaging Warrick's erection until he was helplessly hard again, growling at the sneaky antics of his lover. He held Nick's eyes captive long enough to assure himself that there was no lingering physical pain. Not until then he started moving his hips, slowly and shallowly at first, with barely noticeable thrusts. He knew exactly when he hit Nick's prostate. The tautness increased and Nick's sounds became deeper, more guttural.

Strong hands, stroking his thighs encouragingly, was not exactly helping Warrick in the pursuit of making this all about Nick. The slightly arched back of his man enabled him to thrust back far too efficiently for Warrick to maintain full control.

“Damn you, Nicky,” he panted, moving his arm higher up on the chest to try and hold Nick stiller, more manageable. But Nick would have none of it. With eyes sliding shut, tongue slipping out between parted lips, he kept increasing the depth and the pace, looking for the hard and the fast.

Warrick suckled at the neck, mumbling nonsense words, his free hand sliding down to press Nick's erection to the tensed abdomen. The increased friction had Nick's eyes open, one hand coming up to clasp at the wrist of Warrick's arm, crossed over his chest. A soft and content 'yeah' leaving him.

Warrick captured the hand, entwining his fingers with Nick's and held on, never losing his grip around his wet, hot and slippery man.

Nick was making deep guttural noises with every thrust, Warrick was barely able to make out that he was actually chanting 'deeper', over and over again.

And Warrick finally relented and gave the man what he wanted; stroking the prostate with fast and deep strokes. Moving his hips to meet his man's needs, no more and no less than what Nick let him know he wanted.

He wasn't sure if the lights really were flickering or it was his imagination until the room went dark. Only halting to assess if Nick was reacting to the darkness, he continued his rhythm at the growled protest, reassured when his man pressed his back hard to him. The sounds grew clearer in the darkness, he felt every moan and breathless gasp that left Nick, every loll of the head on his shoulder. The spasmodic tightening around him, every time Nick erratically pushed back, was making Warrick emit garbled sounds. He realized he'd lost control, his hips were now moving by their own volition. Needing the heat and the friction, encouraged by their mutual breathless grunts and groans.

The scent of musky sweat, from the hard body in his hold, was intoxicating. The precum leaking onto his hand was the last straw; it wet his fingers and had him bite down on the shoulder within his reach. Nick's head lolled to the right, the harsh, raspy breathing mirroring his own. Blindly he searched for the lips and sucked the peaking tongue into his hungry mouth in a wet, fumbling kiss.

The reaction was immediate; Nick's body arched, the hand Warrick held captive in his, grabbed his fingers hard in the full body quake that rippled through taut muscles. There was no way to prevent it, his body responded and he came hard and deep into his man, his hips undulating, keeping him deep inside Nick. Hot, sticky essence coated his fingers, while his own release trickled down Nick's thighs in the massive, dual reaction, involving garbled sounds, heat, skin and bone-melting pleasure.

He came down slowly, lights flickering behind his closed eyelids. A heavy load of trembling mass in his hold as he sank to sit on his bent knees. Feeling totally boneless, he tried to hold on to Nick, who was slipping out of his hold. Obviously trying to move his weight off Warrick, Nick's hand came out to the side for stability and slid on the wet floor. He reached out his hand to protect Nick's head when they, all but gracefully, sank sideways to the tiled floor. Nick grunted in surprise and there was a heavy thump when the hamper fell to the floor.

Still deep inside of Nick, he rested his head on the crumpled up shower-curtain that he found right under his head. With Nick still pressed to his chest, legs entangled, he listened for sounds of distress from his man. There was nothing but heavy breaths and he chuckled breathlessly as the lights flickered back on. He was met with the sight of the hamper fallen to the floor, the plastic shower-curtain torn and crumpled up under them where they lie in a heap, facing the partly open door. If someone would check in on them now, there was no doubt they'd be hauled in for questioning.

“The lights really did go out?” Nick mumbled breathlessly.

Warrick pulled the man closer still, cocooning him. Laughing softly at his surprise. “You all right there, Nicky?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, head heavy on Warrick's arm. He swallowed before he whispered, “Thanks Rick.”

Warrick shook his head before nuzzling the neck, licking lazily at the salty skin; he'd never get enough of the scent and feel of the sated man under him. A small shudder raking through Nick's body, reverberating in his own. Tugging at his heart, with something Warrick suspected was unconditional love.

“Nicky?” He finally crooned against the sweaty neck, wondering where he'd find the strength to stand up, hose the man down and drag him to bed.

“Uhn?” Settling himself more comfortably, Nick sighed contentedly, his hand searching for Warrick's and lacing lax fingers together. He chuckled softly. “Y'know we're too old for this floor-stuff. We gotta get a cure for this new kink of yours. It's kinda hot, but babe, it'll kill us.”

Warrick laughed and let his head fall back to rest on the bare shoulder-blade.

Bed could wait a little longer. Everything could wait a little bit longer. As long as his man was all right.


	10. Chapter 10

Nick woke with a start at the ringing of the alarm. Opening his eyes to the eerie light of the orange LED's of the clock. It said 8.30 PM and he had slept 10 hours straight through before he woke at 8 A.M and staggered out to make coffee and order out for some Chinese food. Only to be laughed at for leaving his own address instead of Warrick's. Then he'd sat on the couch, trying to watch the news, remembering absolutely nothing at the end. Suddenly he'd been brusquely woken by Warrick that dragged him back to bed, after a detour to the bathroom that had him sighing at the sight of the total mess they'd left it in. He'd tried to tidy up, but Warrick had gripped his neck and dragged him to bed. That had been at noon and after that he'd slept on and off for the reminder of the day, while Warrick watched the TV in the bedroom and kept an eye on him. Until he'd obviously fallen asleep himself. Still, Nick felt weary and heavy, with every limb seeming to ache dully. He rolled to his back and reached out a hand to nudge the man at his side. "Warr?"

"Present, barely," came the answering gruff.

Nick sat up, wincing at the pull on his knee. He massaged it while reaching out to flick on the bedside lamp.

“Ass sore?” Warrick taunted and rolled to his side, leaning on his elbow with only one eye opened to a slit.

“Haven't gotten to that part yet,” Nick murmured, pulling the sheet off his knee. The skin on the lower part of his kneecap was bluish and tender.

Warrick rubbed his right eye open, took a look and laughed heartily. “You are ripe!”

Nick glared, laying back to bend his knee tentatively. It was tender. He boxed the man at his side. “Watch it, man!”

“So what you gonna blame your injury on this time?” Warrick chuckled deep in his throat.

Nick let his leg fall back, sighing. “What haven't we used?”

Warrick scooted up to lay a hand on the knee. Looking at it, shaking his head. “Paint ball.”

“Paint ball?” Nick narrowed his eyes.

“Matching colors.” Warrick leered. “Want me to be your crutch?”

Nick felt blood tinge his cheeks. He'd probably spilled far too much earlier. There was no excuse for laying all that on his man. Using him to fight his own battles. That was not who he was about, was it? “M'sorry Rick. 'Bout earlier, won't happen -”

“Hey!” Warrick cut him off. “Not that road, Nicky. Wasn't gettin' at that. Shit man, snap outta it!”

Nick smiled weakly, nodding in consent. “Ai'ght boss. I'm snapped.”

“So snap off to make some coffee. I have a bathroom to tidy up before any unsuspecting visitor deems it a crime-scene and wonders who we dragged out with the trashed curtain.” Warrick leaned closer, fingering the knee. “Man, this really is swollen. That's why I put it under our knees, for protection. You need to stop by the ER?”

Nick jerked his knee away, swinging it over the bed frame and sat up. “With the paint ball excuse? Yeah, that'll go down like butter on toast.”

Warrick was stifling a sardonic laugh and Nick rose, putting his weight on the knee carefully and realized it didn't hurt that much at all. He glared at the man trying to stay serious, green eyes twinkling in the semi-darkness.

He slapped him with the pillow before he walked out, grinning.

 

 

The atmosphere seemed tensed at the lab, Nick caught that the moment he walked in through the door and steered his steps to the locker room. There was really nothing obvious, just the hushed greetings from the lab-techs he saluted on his way in and Judy's tense smile as she handed him his mail and the printouts he'd asked for yesterday. Her fretting manners told him she felt slightly guilty about what she was handing him. He made a mental note to thank the woman properly at a later time. Immersed in the statistics he almost tripped over a subdued Greg half-way down the corridor.

“You heard?” Their newest CSI inquired, flipping his case from one hand to the other while they were on their way to the locker-room.

“Huh?” He asked, lengthening his stride to keep up, despite the slight throbbing in his knee.

Gregg looked at tad nervous, shrugging his shoulders. “This meeting, we're gonna get our asses chewed over good. Sara said Ecklie came down hard on you all.”

“No worse than usual,” Nick reassured. “Why?”

“Sara got in early, talked to some day-shifters getting off late. Said they warned her that Ecklie was pissed and ready to lay down the law. She's been hiding in there, trying to catch up on her paper-work. Called me to get her mail from the front-desk.

“Ecklie been hasslin' her?” Nick asked.

“Nah,” the man had shook his head. “He's out after all of us. Something about the budget.”

“Relax, G,” Nick grinned, leaning on the door to open it. “He has this budget speech once every year. He's just a bit early, usually he whacks us over the head with it early November.”

Greg smiled. “As long as he doesn't touch my training or my Hawaiian, I'll be fine.”

Nick laughed and slid into the locker room behind the fidgeting young man.

A pale Sara was sitting on the bench, rubbing her temples.

“Hey Sar', “he saluted. “Wazz up?”

She lifted her head, stopping the frenetic scribbling and looked at him, letting her eyes wander from upside down when he reached his locker. “What's with your knee?”

He dove into his locker, pulling his jacket off after having let his mail fall onto bench. “Paint ball,” he declared, feeling heat nudge his cheeks.

“After shift you go out and shoot balls full of paint at people?” Her voice sounded incredulous.

Nick decided to keep his head in the locker a little while longer, just in case. He took his sweet time, arranging the shirts he had hung there, to get them in perfect order from dark to light-colored. “Yeah, it's called having fun. You should try it.”

Sara remained silent too long and Nick had to pull his head out and turn to her. She was watching him, a small smile curving her lips. It was unnerving to say the least. “Wanna come with some time?”

Sara pursed her lips into a crooked smile and made a dismissive gesture with the hand holding the pen. “Don't think so.”

Greg had slumped down on the bench besides her. “It's fun, you should really try it. Never heard about knee-injuries though. Usually all you get are some scrapes from having to dive into brushes and stuff.”

Nick decided it was high time to get his head out of the locker for good. He retreated and sat down, wincing just a little as his ass connected with the hard structure that his colleagues were occupying.

“Fell on your ass?” Greg asked in a deceivingly innocent voice, wriggling his eyebrows.

Nick grabbed his printouts, studying them with exaggerated interest. The smug smile on Greg's face didn't escape him. Neither did Sara's inquiring gaze at the youngest CSI.

 

 

Warrick walked in a good ten minutes after Nick, not to raise questions. It was an unspoken rule between the two of them. On the job they were professional, he the ladies' man and Nick, well Nick was just Nick. Having him play a role would end in disaster anyhow. The innate honesty would have him creep out of his skin if asked to perform any act of overt deceit.

He met up with Catherine in the vault, three binders under her arm and a scowl on her face. “Hey, Rick. You got sent home too?” her voice mimicked the frustrated expression.

“It was either that or unemployment,” he shrugged. “What's this sudden strict control all about?” He searched for the binder he'd need to the upcoming briefing, glancing at the woman waiting by the door.

“Ecklie's administrative skills being audited?” Catherine smiled wryly. “Seems it's more important to stay in budget than actually solve crimes. Ecklie's sitting in on our briefing.”

”Just what I needed to start the shift off with.” He checked the binder and turned to the woman waiting for him by the door. “Why this urgency? Grissom late with paperwork?”

“Rumor has it that your case is taking up too much time.” She moved forward, shaking her head as she led the way to the locker room. “Not a high-profiled enough case to spend money on. Won't get the Sheriff re-elected.”

“Wrong kind of victims?” Warrick sneered, feeling his pulse rise.

“Not enough publicity,” Catherine admitted. “No beautiful young females with bling-bling to hang on the covers. No connection to the uppity class, no interest from the masses. Add to that the fact that it's the wrong religion and probably, if that pans out, the wrong sexuality.”

“Wrong sexuality?” Warrick quirked an eyebrow, following the woman down the hall.

“Homo eroticism is consented only if it appears in porn, played out by females for a male audience. The jury's still out on everything else, and I fear it'll be hung for a long time yet.” Catherine cast him a bemused smile.

“Haven't really thought about it.” Warrick lied through his teeth, smiling back. Sometimes it payed off to be a player.

“Sure you haven't,” Catherine smiled, re-arranging the binders under her arm by the locker room door. Warrick took pity on the overloaded woman and opened the door. Surprised to find three of his colleagues nesting inside. “What bet y'all lose?”

Two pairs of eyes looked up at their arrival, the third pair was stubbornly glued to a pack of stapled papers in his hand.

“At least not the, who's-coming-in-last, one,” Sara grinned her characteristic crooked smile. “Grissom called, he'll be in and give us the latest before the grand old third degree starts.”

“Oh, some get called and informed?” Warrick grumbled, walking over to his locker.

“The innocent get warned. It's all thanks to Nick and his – what was it six doubles and three triples in a month?” The brunette shook her head, glancing over at the still reading man. He seemed totally absorbed and made no sign of even being aware of the ribbing he was the subject of. It wasn't until Catherine greeted him by calling his name that he looked up, a small smile fleeting over his face. With a friendly nod he returned to his reading of what looked like some sort of rap-list.

Warrick made a disgruntled face in the man's direction and shut his door before he sank down to sit by Sara's side, casting a glance at the scribbled notes on the report she was signing. Almost groaning at the protesting muscles in the small of his back, he leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. Ge needed five minutes before he'd have to face Conrad Ecklie's philosophy on how to run a crime lab.

“Paint ball?” Greg asked and Sara's mouth twisted suspiciously. Catherine turned to look at him, puzzled.

“Huh?” He threw one of his more fearsome glares in Greg's direction, deliberately ignoring Cath's inquisitive eyes.

The freshest CSI looked away when his eyes bore over to him, leaning his elbows on his spread knees. “Seems some are just resting their knees, others seem to have lower back trouble,” Greg offered astutely. “The rest of us are just doing what we were told and wait for the boss.”

“He's late,” Catherine stated, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I'll just fill you in on what I know, chances are he's being judged and condemned by Conrad. The thing is, Grave is in deep because of the backlog. When Ecklie starts to talk about unnecessary tests performed and the non-productive chasing of possible evidence; you just turn a blind eye. It seems that chasing candles, just in case, reached the Sheriff's ears and he is not thrilled. So we divulge nothing but the most necessary. And we will clock out at end of shift, that clear you guys? This is just gonna be temporary and they'll happily have us pulling triples in no time. Let's just ride this one out and return to normal when the waves settle.”

“That'd be me out in the field instead of analyzing candles. I hope?” Greg asked and rose, looking at the man blocking his path. “Because then I'm all for returning to normal.”

He got no reply and shrugged in Sara's direction. “Paint ball's hard on the hearing too?”

Finally Nick looked up, brow creased and face set in determination. “Hey, you're the genius, G. What percentage is 87 outta 131?”

Greg blinked twice, stopping in his tracks. “Uh, oh, 66 something.”

Nick flashed off one of his famous knock-em-outta-the-field grins and rose. “Thanks doll, I owe you one.”

“I'll add it to the long list.” The new CSI tried to look stern but the happy grin spoke clearly of the positive impact of Nick's words. His gait was youthful and full of energy when he walked out the door. Some of which Warrick wished he had right now, as he dragged himself up off the bench and fell in pace beside Nick.

“What you up to, boss?” He kept his voice low, like he was digging into some national secret.

“How's you back?” Nick asked in an equally low voice and a head tilt in his direction.

“Shut up and spill, bro.” Warrick jabbed at the shoulder-blade with a loose fist, letting his knuckles rest there for a while. Making it look like he was taunting the man. When in fact it was just to get some physical contact, however little he could get, was at least something.

“Just some statistics.” Nick replied, raking his fingers through his hair. “Something to bargain with.”

“As long as you know your cards, man.” Warrick warned. “Don't go for twenty-one if nineteen's already on the table.”

The only reply he got was a small smile as they reached the break room and spotted Ecklie and Grissom waiting by the door.

 

Nick found the entire situation creepy. Cups were handed out under silence, all faces shut down with irritated tension over not being allowed to do their actual work. Catherine's crossed legs and steady gaze, resting on the administrator, spoke volumes and Warrick's creased brow and arms folded over his chest were clear indications of the wish to be elsewhere. Nick had already mastered to keep his emotions in check when facing his supervisors, most of the time at least. Sometimes it really felt like he did the best work on his own, not having to be in tune with his co-workers. Lately he'd felt completely at easy only with Warrick. It just felt like the others drained him of concentration, that built in need for him to check on others' well-being was really an obstacle on occasion. It had held him back earlier, forcing him to rationalize the whys' of his intentions and methods. Part of that had stemmed from the intuition that the methods he used were not considered scientific enough by his boss.

He'd gotten over that too – somewhere between finding out he was probably going to die and the tape logged in as evidence without anybody telling him. It had probably been for his benefit, he realized that. But nevertheless, it felt like it was because he wasn't supposed to be able to handle it. If he had handled the early grave, however badly - a tape was nothing. The realization that nobody would ever truly get the terror in the box had rid him of any need to find support or even understanding. And when you don't need that, you don't need anything. He had Warrick, however awkwardly they handled each others' demons, without even fully understanding them, and that was more than he could ever ask of anybody. Probably all he could handle right now, as well. It was just a question of being there; no false sense of understanding, it was just a question of trust. And trust was something he had lost a lot of along the way.

Conrad Ecklie was on a roll, explaining the hardships of administering a crime lab and having it run smoothly and efficiently. When he got to their shortcomings in keeping the budget, Nick cleared his throat in effort to still the ever flowing stream of words.

Ecklie turned to him

“I went through some statics before shift started,” Nick spoke tentatively. “And from what I can see it's the Graveyard that has the highest rate of crimes solved since the beginning the year. If we look at the 420's – 75% of them were reported to PD after 9 P.M and thus handled by Grave. Insurance-frauds, automobile accidents and larceny was handled by Day for the major part, that is, 82% of the time. If one compares the tests needed to solve a 419 or 420 in comparison to larceny or fraud, yes we do use more of the costly processes. But that is, according to the statistics, due to the nature of crimes handled by the shift.”

Ecklie was looking at him intently. Nick met calmly with his gaze and continued. “Of the 420s, 66% were solved with an average on 5 hours less manpower than Day used on such cases. That means that when Grave takes on a 420, we simply don't have enough CSIs to spread the work out but have rely on internal communication and seemingly use the manpower we have more efficiently, despite the longer hours. To put it shortly; the team works wonders.”

The entire room had woken to life. There was small smiles emerging around the room, coffee cups filled and frazzle of paper. Grissom's gaze rested on him, with a confidence that surprised Nick. He looked away and continued: “Now, I admit I haven't checked for any statistical significance of the mentioned facts I just presented, but the disparity of the percentages alone point to some level of significant difference in what meets the eye, and the facts underneath the figures.”

Conrad Ecklie looked smug. “You have those numbers, Nick?”

“Right here,” he placed the stack of papers at Ecklie's reach, never letting his eyes waver.

The administrator emitted one of his rare smiles, gathering the crumpled documents off the table. “Well Stokes, next time I need someone to persuade the council, I'm calling on you. I'm not saying you're all off the hook thanks to Stokes here, but I now have some leverage. There was no time to get the numbers before the meeting was called. OT is not in question, but if you need extra help I might be able to arrange someone from days to help you out. Now lets get to the real agenda; your case. Where you at on that one?”

Nick exhaled in relief while Warrick and Greg pulled their binders up and started reporting.

Warrick calmly laid out their current evidence – which was not much and Greg piped in with the upcoming analysis of the candles that might, or might not, produce a site for the possible murders. Hearing it laid out had Nick want to groan out loud. It was a case built on his hunches, and supported by nothing much except three letters, candle-wax, a couple of fingerprints and some hairs pulled off a sheet that had been thrown into a dumpster and thus probably thoroughly contaminated. Any prosecutor worth their salt would seriously doubt their minds if they even asked for a search warrant for the apartment of their main suspect. A man that had nothing else than owning a blue Transit with a logo against him. Sara explained that she was still going through the finger prints from the two latests scenes and had gotten nothing of interests as of yet. She hurried to ramble the amount of fingerprints, her intentions in proceeding with them and the work done with clearing the fingerprints matched. Which all happened to belong to occupants of the buildings near the dumpster.

Nick could literally feel how close Ecklie was to order them to let the case go and declare it cold when his cell let him know he had a text-message. He flipped his phone open and read it, a wave of relief washing over him.

He rose in the middle of Sara's speech excusing himself. “Gotta go, Mandy's matched two prints off the sheet that our latest vic was draped in. C'mon bro!” He nudged Warrick's shoulder and the man was up on his feet and out the door in a second. There were sounds of scraping of chairs over the floor, papers folded and binders shut with mumbled words behind him.

He found himself flanked by Greg and Sara on this way to Mandy's lab. He grinned. shaking his head. “Four to get two fingerprints?”

Warrick turned his head and shot them a consternated gaze. “Where were you all when I had to go through the trash?”

“We're the fall-backs, bro,” Nick wriggled his eyebrows. “We're only good to hang around when all other options fail. I could'a used someone when I was hauling the poor mother from the morgue. A woman's touch maybe?” He intensionally jibed the brunette at his side, knowing he was pushing her buttons.

“Nick! I spent a shift in a dumpster hunting for a spray-can and I'm not in? And woman or not, you're still the one when it comes to distraught kin. I'll give you that.” Sara shot him a lip-pursed grin. “I'll give you anything to get out of that room and Ecklie's pompous flow-charts.”

“And that's the only reason she wants you; lack of flow-charts!” Greg jumped in. “I, on the other hand, provide you with percentages and pertinent wisdom from my vast experience.”

Nick let out a laugh. “Nice to know one's duly appreciated.” He leaned in to open Mandy's lab-door, grinning at the two of them, while Warrick walked inside.

Sara turned serious all of a sudden. Looking at him in earnest. Her hand came up to lay on his chest lightly. Her gaze didn't flinch, but an embarrassed smile curved her lips. “You are, Nick. I don't -,” she paused, looking at her hand before removing it awkwardly. “Thanks Nick. You really made your point in there.”

He smiled back in gratitude. Knowing how hard it was for Sara to give praise, he truly appreciated the effort she made. She was a very guarded person, but that made her words so much more poignant when spoken.

“Y'know Sar', the offer still stands.”

“What offer?” Warrick re-emerged from the lab, results in hand. Eyes narrow slits, peering at the two of them.

Greg raised his hands theatrically. “Uh oh, guys,” he took a step back. “I'm not wearing my Kevlar vest.”

Nick laughed deep in his throat, reaching out to jab at the young man in a friendly manner. “Goes for you too, G.”

“No thanks,” Sara smirked. “I'm not rolling in any bushes with any of you. Under any circumstances.”

Warrick's eyebrows arched up and Nick reached for the results in his hand. “Never mind, bro. What's Mandy got for us?”

He read the files, feeling his heart speed up. The owners of the finger-prints; Jared Pintillo  
and Lemarr Dennison, were actually found at the same place. Ordered there by the Vegas Social Services, doing time in a juvenile rehabilitation center for youth, afflicted by drug-abuse. A clear geographical connection was, ridiculously enough, the best news he'd had since he'd begged for this case. “Bro, get Brass on the line, this is big!”


	11. Chapter 11

Jim Brass arrived in half an hour, a curious smirk emerging on his face when he passed outside the window of the layout room that they were occupying. Warrick spotted him through the glass, resting his eyes momentarily from the paperwork he was filling out. The Captain's creased eyes fell on the man at Warrick's left and the corners of the Captain's mouth twitched.

Warrick glanced over at his partner, the one with the candle and the grater. He was hunched over, grating one candle at the time against a sizable, old-style grater. Warrick had to admit that it didn't look very hi-tech.

“New pizza topping?” Brass asked, amusement masked by his usual sarcasm.

Warrick had to bow his head to hide his own merriment at Nick's wide-eyed incomprehension at the mirth. “Huh?”

“Whippin' out the fancy stuff for this one, Nicky? I'm impressed.” Brass pulled out a chair and leered at the criminalist.

“Nah,” Nick smiled. “Greg ball-parked this stash of candles to be the most likely match to the wax on our vics, based on the color and scent. Needs them pulverized for the compound matchin'. We'll just need to match my gratings to the candle used at the original drippings and we're set. Thought I'd help out while I wait for you slow-pokes over at PD.”

“Yeah? Well you might have to do a lot of grating yet because the home turf of the finger-prints owners double as a small candle factory.” Brass grinned.

“I though it was a Rehab slash detention, of sorts?” Warrick asked, leaning back in his chair as much as the small of his back allowed.

“Arbeit macht frei?” The sardonic smile belied the gravity of the tone. “Get your gear, we have a long road ahead of us. This place is smack out in the desert, miles from civilization.”

“Miles from safety,” Nick retorted and rose, deposing his grated evidence into a jar. “Perfect for refining you serial killer skills.”

“Hey, Nick, don't jump the gun on this one,” Warrick warned. “Undue aggression toward suspects doesn't go down well with the DA.”

“So let's go find some evidence that do.” Determined eyes met his from under lowered brows.

“The warrant isn't very helpful,” Brass admitted. “We can only search the two suspects' rooms, the laundry because of the linen, the facilities where they make the candles and the usual in sight items. Everything else is out of reach because these kids are under the thumb of social services. That includes any possible blue Transits. We can only talk to Jeremy, that's all.” Brass locked gaze with Nick.

“I don't get it? The sheet has to be from the place, right? A clear reason for a thorough search of every corner of the joint, if there ever was one.” Warrick grumbled.

“You'd think,” Brass nodded. “But the linens were all replaced two months ago. A donation of shiny new bed clothing were brought in and the old ones washed, starched and shipped off to well-fare. The priest faxed over a thank you note, with date, from one of the homeless shelters the sheets were donated to. If the fabric matches the ones in the closet, we make a call and get the extended search. If not - see the problem?”

Warrick shook his head. “These folks really must have somebody lookin' out for them. All these coincidences and we still can't call their cards?”

“Means we'll just have to work harder,” Brass remarked tiredly. “Nothing will be served on a plate on this case.”

“So let's get creative. If it's not served, we go out and grab it. I'm not letting those kids murderers go free. Just not happening.” Nick replied calmly and met with the Captain's gaze.

Warrick noted that Brass was the first to look away, with a confident grin. He wasn't surprised; this was the cold logical Nick, the one who came dangerously close to bending rules to get the job done. This was the Nick that worried him the most. And it worried him even more that very few on the team seemed to notice this Nick, and how dangerously close to stepping over some lines that would end his career, he was. He'd been there himself, he knew how thin that line between right and wrong was at times.

He held his eyes on Nick while Brass continued his briefing.

“This is the plan guys; if we leave now we reach the premises at approximately six A.M. Catherine will clock you out at 7 AM not to inflict the wrath of Conrad on you. I'll ask Sara or Sanders to tag along, the more the faster we can process. We'll take two cars just in case, don't wanna spend hours in the desert waiting for aid if something breaks. When we return I get the evidence to the vault and you go straight home and don't clock back in till your regular shift. It's either that or I gotta get day shifters on the case. You in on that?”

“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “I'm fine with that. You, bro?”

Warrick sent an irritated glare in his man's direction, clearly indicating how totally unnecessary that inquiry was. “I'll do the drivin'.”

 

 

Nick stretched his legs when they finally stopped after half an hour on a bumpy dirt road. It was close to dawn, the sun reaching just over the mountains in the background. It had taken 2.5 hours and Warrick had broken the speed-limit on several occasions, causing Brass' to honk his horn. If it had been him and Rick alone they'd probably made it in two hours flat.

The Captain shut the patrol car's door and stepped up to glare at the driver slumped over the hood of the car.

“I ought'a cite you, Brown.”

“But you won't.” Warrick grinned, rising to stretch his back.

“Don't bet on it.” Brass grumbled, narrowing his eyes to look at the buildings in front of him. “Looks dead. Thought the reveille would have sounded already.”

“I thought there'd be fences.” Greg let his kit drop to the gravel and craned his head to look around the peaceful surroundings.

The three buildings were located in a natural ravine, flanked by 500 feet high, edgy rises to the north, slightly lower rises to the west and south, making a perfect ring around the green patch of vegetation in the middle. The dirt road continued, narrowing to something like a precarious pathway along the hillside, vanishing behind the steep hill to the east. The large building in the center looked old, like a Spanish hacienda, while the flanking buildings were more recent. The hacienda style house; a two-story white-washed wooden building had a large crucifix above the main door. And the walkway up to the buildings was covered in whitish gravel.

“See something you need to take a sample of around, G?” Nick asked, suppressing a smile.

“What?” Greg whipped his head around, brow creased and the gravel screeching under his feet as he turned.

“You're standing on it, Sanders,” Warrick remarked with a frown. “Forgot your head at the lab?”

“Oh, right. Gravel. At the scenes. I'm on it.” The former lab tech fell to his knees, opening his kit and pulling forth a plastic bag.

“Sanders, don't have me regret I dragged you along.” Brass grumbled.

“Greggo'll be fine, he just has to wake up first, is all.” Nick grinned at the man on his knees, scribbling on the label of the jar. He turned to the Captain, trying to wrap his head around the reason to build a house like this out in the desert. “What was this place originally?”

“A vineyard, but the water from the natural source was full of iron, giving the grapes an odd taste. It went bankrupt the fifth year. The Catholic church took pity on the owners and took over the loans and made it a center for single mothers at first, that was post WW II. It's been a drug rehab for forty years. Only boys and they're sent here only after having been personally approved by Padre Jeffries.” Brass reported after finding the appropriate paper in the binder. “Padre Anselmo Jeffries, he's been here twenty-five years, runs the place according to a twelve step Minnesota-program He has one registered nurse, Gretchel Withers who's been here ten years and two aids, Malcolm Sisley and the counselor Xavier De Sousa both long time servers. Mr. Sisley ever since he graduated from the program and returned with a Bachelor's degree. The second female is the cook-housekeeper-handy woman, Majorie De Sousa. That's right, married to Xavier who is the teacher. They're both in their sixties and been here long enough to have mold growing on them. See where I'm going with this?” Brass looked at them in turn. “A real hornet's nest this one.” The dryness of the last sentence was enough to send Nick sighing.

“Ever heard the proverb 'In the stillest water'?” He looked around the premises; the well-kept houses and the small patches of cultivated land. There was nothing, absolutely nothing that spoke of any kind of horror. And that was enough to send the hairs on the back of his neck on full alert. There was no perfection in this world, no safe harbor or paradise. If it looked too perfect, it usually was too perfect to be true.

“The only newcomer is your Mr. Jensen, but he's been here four years already. He was the only survivor of his father's stockbroker firm during 9/11. He fled NY and roamed around the country until he finally settled here. Bringing a large portfolio of stocks and options along. He was welcomed with open arms. Can you blame him, or them?”

“Only survivor? His father died in the terrorist attack?” Nick craned his head to look at the detective.

“That's what it says.” Brass nodded, shutting the binder.

“What you gettin' at bro?” Warrick asked quietly. Stepping up close enough for Nick to feel the body heat against his back.

“It all makes sense now,” Nick said quietly, changing the grip on his kit from the left hand to the right. Eyes taking in the image of the sun slowly bringing out the lush green of the leaves rustling in the wind and the rusty colors of the slopes, that seemed to embrace the peacefulness. He realized that this was the missing piece of the puzzle - he finally had some kind of understanding as to why; the thing that had bothered him the most all along. Why the insanity? The cruelty? It had its reason this time too, always seemed to have.

“What does?” Greg asked, walking up to stand by him, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“Sons of September,” Nick replied and started walking toward the main building.

 

 

Warrick's warnings bells went off right then. In the same instance that Nick told them it all made sense. Sense? He wanted to ask what the fuck he meant by it, how anything like what they'd seen could ever make sense? But Nick was far ahead by the time he had gathered himself enough to lift his kit and follow. It wasn't that he didn't trust Nick, he did. What he didn't trust was that Nick would back down in time, in case he landed in the line of fire. That he would take that extra step that would put his life or career on the line. The man definitely needed more self-preservation.

Or maybe that was his own guilt talking? Fact was, he never wanted to find out. What he needed to do right now was watch out for Nick.

The main door was opened by Padre Anselmo Jeffries, clad in a strict gray cloth. He shook their hands, his grip steady and eyes clear when he met Warrick's. Respect was the first thing that came to Warrick's mind. This man had that without much ado, he wore it as naturally as he wore the Catholic uniform. He watched the clergyman's eyes rest on Nick's, just a tad longer than necessary. Warrick wondered if he saw something in the eyes that very few did, the immense depth hidden behind the courteous smile and the sorrow that would occasionally darken them further. The things Nick hid so well behind the easy smile.

Warrick looked away, letting his trained eyes take in the layout of the building. The hall was wide, framed by narrow windows and opening into an atrium, from where different rooms opened. At the end of the room, a broad staircase led up to the second story. Rooms situated in a row along the walls, leaving the atrium wide open, letting light seep in from above. The ceiling was painted light blue, with bulky white clouds. This was probably not where the crimes had taken place, there was nowhere to hide.

“Captain Brass,” the priest's voice carried over and broke his musings. “We're at your full disposal, but due to the nature of our work, we can't let you search other than what your warrant stipulates. These young boys have had their rights narrowed as is, and they are under our supervision. But any information I can divulge to help you with your inquisition, I'll gladly forward. I will be present under all interrogations, I believe that it states so in the warrant?”

The pair had stopped in front of a large door, obviously leading into the priest's office. Brass merely nodded curtly.

“I'd like to talk to all employees first, lay out the scene so you can understand the gravity of the case. We're going to need all your fingerprints and a sample for DNA-analysis. My crime scene investigators will need help to find the location of your candle manufacturing and the chapel, since the crimes might have ties with the locations mentioned.”

“Of course,” Jeffries nodded. “Might I ask for a chance to hear the accusations first? If you don't mind informing me, so as I know what we are dealing with? I have the boys waiting in separate rooms, with Gretchel and Malcolm, while breakfast is being served. I will have someone accompany you to the mentioned locations when breakfast has been served.”

Brass nodded again, “Nick Stokes will be present at the interrogations to collect fingerprints and DNA-samples. We'll try to be as fast as possible in collecting further evidence.”

Anselmo Jeffries opened the door, inviting them in.

There was a large desk at the end of the room, illuminated by narrow windows in a bay. The walls were light blue, with murals of a high summer sky, exactly like the ceiling in the atrium.. One large table stood in the center of the room, a dozen of chairs around it. The rest of the room was clad with books stapled in massive, wooden libraries covering the rest of the walls.

“Please, take a seat.” Jeffries made a gesture to the table, seating himself at the end. Warrick took the seat besides Nick, who was facing Brass at the end of the table. Greg followed their suit, sliding down on the chair beside Brass, all wide eyes and perked ears.

“Padre,” Nick started while opening the binder that held the photographs of the victims. “We have three different cases, with an equal amount of deaths, and one boy in a coma.” He laid out the first picture, one of their latest vic, for the priest to see.

Padre Jeffries' eyes widened, his hands shook when he lifted the photograph by the corner. His jaws tightened and he paled visibly. “How young?”

“The victims ages range from twelve to sixteen.” Another picture, a close-up of the wrist was laid on the table. The smeared blood had not yet been washed away. The third photo showed the gaping hole and Padre Jeffries swallowed and looked away, hand automatically rising and making the characteristic cross sign.

“The most recent victim, Azar Bakr, was crucified, upside down. He bled out slowly, while fighting for his every breath. He died on a cross, nailed there for reasons yet unknown. Signs of stearine in his hair and on his body would indicate that some form of ritual was performed.” Nick's voice was low and vibrating. It penetrated Warrick's bones with its intensity and he was able to tell that the impact on Padre Anselmo, was harsh.

“We found two fingerprints belonging to Jared Pintillo and Lemarr Dennison on the cloth draped over the dead boy's hips. I'd like to know how they got there?” Nick's steely eyes bore into the Padre's.

Brass' eyes narrowed when the priest swallowed convulsively. Looking over at Warrick, he lifted his eyebrows in a questioning gesture. Certainly a priest would have seen a lot of deaths during his days. Warrick wasn't so sure anybody could be calm and composed when handed the photos in question.

“Crucified?” the priest asked.

“Up-side down.” Nick confirmed. “Does such an act have any symbolism in the Catholic Church?”

”No!” The uttered protest was let out with a deep exhale. Anselmo looked down at his hands on the table, palms open like in a plea. “I don't think this has anything to do with organized religion. I certainly cannot conceive that anyone with a faith would take part of such a bestial act. The fingerprints must be from when Lemarr and Jared washed and packed the sheet to take them to the homeless shelter in Henderson. Jeremy drove them there, it took them two days to wash and pack the sheets. Who knows where the linen finally ended up?”

Brass leaned back in his chair, crossing the arms over his chest. “We're checking that up. But I've seen heinous acts being performed, under the blessing of many a religion, myself. It all depends on who the victims are, doesn't it?”

The priest looked up, an aghast expression on his face. “It is a child in that photograph!”

“And children all over the world have been molested, killed and maimed ever since history began.” Brass replied.

“Not here!” Anselmo Jeffries rose to his feet, shaking his head. “I pray to God that nobody here has anything to do with such an act of depravity. Many of our boys do have troubled pasts, but this? This is something else all together. Molestations and torture? No one of our boys would be capable of that.”

“Are you sure?” Nick raised his eyes to pin the pastor to his place. “Molestations can happen where you least expect them to. There's no guarantee anywhere in the world.”

Warrick felt the words spoken hit him like a fist to his gut, his eyes darting to Nick automatically. The voice was chilling, stating bitter facts.

Anselmo Jeffries looked at Nick, his mouth moving to open, but nothing came out. The elderly man's eyes met with the younger criminalist's in what seemed a battle of wills. Then pain colored the wrinkled eyes a darker hue, like a dawning understanding of layers underneath the voice kept tightly in control. The eyes softened, a hand moving reflexively out to console, but Nick's gaze stopped the movement. The priest looked away and his jaws tensed anew, hand sinking to his side. He had to battle to get his voice in working order. “I'll get Jared, I need to know because it any of my children has anything to do with this vile, senseless murder -,” he paused and looked at them each in turn. “Then my failure is total. Excuse me.”

He walked away, gait fast and tense, hands in fists by his side.

“Either the preacher doesn't know a thing, or that was an act that'd floor any jury,” Greg said, his eyes still trained to the doorway.

“Remember that priests do perform acts at every mass, G,” Nick smiled while retrieving the photos spread on the table. “Easy to get fooled by a man with training in front of an audience.”

“You didn't believe him?” Greg asked incredulously, turning his wide eyes in Nick's direction.

“I've seen mothers cry over their dead babies after they'd sold them to the highest bidder,” Warrick pointed out. “That's why we collect evidence, Greg. Let's go get the samples instead of going judge an' jury based on one sole performance.” His eyes rested on Nick as he rose and collected his kit. The tell-tale tension in the jaw and the eyes darkened, in a clear warning, had him hold the man's gaze steadily until he got his point across. He really wasn't out to beat Nick over the head with anything, but until his bro didn't get the fact that he needed to step away, not to get into knee-deep shit - he'd be on his man's back. The darkness in the eyes that met his was even worse than the forced calm of the voice. Warrick knew exactly how much of an effort it took to keep the anger in check.

“Got enough o' Luminol, bro?” Nick finally caved and smiled, the voice softer now, drawl more pronounced as he ducked his head in an apologetic gesture.

“I'll have Sanders go through every tool in the shed,” Warrick assured.

“I knew it,” Greg sighed and scrambled to his feet. “I always get the dirty work.”

“What'ya think you'd be doing here?” Brass quipped. “Stripping show-girls and searchin' them?”

Warrick had to grin at the young CSI's face as he pushed him out the door.

 

 

Nick sighed, shutting his kit and pulling off his gloves. It had turned out like he suspected; very little actual evidence and nothing that brought them closer to a possible serial-killer. The two fingerprint owners had perfect alibis; they did work in the laundry at times and yes, they were supposed to wear white cotton gloves but sometimes they forgot. They'd all been on the premises at the dates the bodies were dumped. No signs of blood had been found on any of the tools visible, no hidden rooms serving as torture-chambers had been discovered. There was nothing new that would take them any closer to a solution and an arrest. Specially not since their main suspect, Mr. Jeremy Jensen, had left on a business trip two days ago. Allegedly to visit local congregations to offer votive candles. His hasty departure coincided perfectly with the dumping of the body, but that didn't help their case. They had to stand outside and watch the small house that he inhabited. It was the perfect place, hidden on the other side of the rises, out of view from the main buildings. Halfway up a slope covered with lush ivy. But the surroundings seemed too trampled, the shack at the far side, serving as garage too neatly organized. It was obvious that it had recently been tidied up, thoroughly. There had been no car, no overt signs but Nick knew. He'd spent hours dusting for fingerprints outside the house, hoping for a miracle. He searched for blood-drops or any evidence that would lead them to get a more substantial warrant. He just knew this was it, but there was no way to prove it, no way to prevent the madness. Unless the APB that had gone out on Mr. Jensen and his car bore fruit. But Nevada was huge, many a hole to hide in.

There was only hope for a miracle that was left. There was the two hairs that Warrick had pulled off the sheet, but they needed the dog to prove it came from Jensen's dog. But the dog was gone, along with Jensen. The suspect might have fled the country. Fled in order to possibly start his mission all over, someplace else.

He crouched down, letting his head sink, closing his eyes in defeat. Maybe he had done wrong asking for this case? If someone else had handled it, maybe lives would have been spared?

The sound of footsteps on gravel made him open his eyes.

Warrick's dusty shoes appeared by his side. Nick let his gaze travel up long, jean clad legs.

“Done?” Nick smiled up at his man, trying to smooth out the creases on his lover's brow. The creases he'd seen deepening as the day went by. He was aware that his bro thought he was about to flip, but that was not the case. He just wanted this case solved. And contrary to Warrick's beliefs, he was not about to jeopardize the outcome.

The unwavering gaze lay heavy upon him, full of questions. And he couldn't blame the man. He'd been on the verge to rip that punk Lemarr a new one when they'd interrogated him. His eyes kept migrating to the right, a clear indication that he was fabricating, not remembering. Nick wondered if the priest had divulged enough information about the evidence they had, to help Lemarr save his ass? If he'd been able to press just a little harder they might have been able to make him fold. But Brass' ardent stare had made him back down. The priest's odd mannerisms when Nick had gotten into the territory of sexual orientation had jarred him, reminding him that as easily as he read others, they read him. Lemarr's constant spewing of words like 'fag', 'batty-boy' and every derogative term under the sun, made him want to smack some sense into the punk. The Pinchillo kid had seemed softer, more subdued and the eyes never looked at the pictures he was shown. Like he already knew what to find there.

Nick rose, meeting with the catlike eyes trained on him. “Up for some breakfast, Rick? First joint with pancakes? My treat.”

“Technically it'll be a late lunch.” Warrick shifted his kit for a better grip. “Have something in the car that needs to get to the lab asap?”

“Nah,” Nick shook his head. “Only the used and bagged latex, I'll just hand them in the vault whenever I get to it. I'm all up for some chow, you?”

“I'll still drive, man.”

“You going all Gung-ho on me, Rick?”

“I still have some self-preservation left and there's no way I'm lettin' a man that's not had more than one full eight hours of sleep in weeks, behind the wheel of my truck.”

Nick boxed the lanky figure amicably. “You're just sayin' that coz' ya da manly man and can't ride shot-gun.”

A hand gripped the back of his neck, hard. Dragging him to the passenger side of the car, Warrick mumbled under his breath. “Gonna have to trap it for ya, Nicky? Get in the car.”

“Man, you're gettin' bossy on me,” Nick chuckled, freeing himself enough to climb inside.

“And now you know my real kink,” Warrick grinned and slammed the door shut on him.


	12. Chapter 12

They were halfway back before they found a joint that didn't seem to have 'food-poisoning' written all over. The taco-joint they finally decided on was still dingy, with a scent of cheap olive oil clinging to the walls. But they settled and shoveled in the most greasy tacos that Warrick had ever had the questionable privilege to encounter, when Nick's cell went off.

He cast a glance the display and raised his eyebrows in Warrick's direction. “Grissom?”

Warrick shrugged, the man probably wanted some updates on the case. No need to get paranoid. His own cell hummed in this vest-pocket and he checked it. Sanders on the line? Nick was looking at the table, tapping his fingers against the torn wax-cloth while he listened and Warrick answered his call.

“Sanders, what you forget?”

“Warrick, the shit just hit the fan!”

He creased his brow, not quite getting exactly what the newest CSI was referring to. “I don't follow.”

“Brass was loading in the evidence when Ecklie showed up. He gave the man a third degree about who'd been on the case. I tried to hide behind the door and slip out unseen, but someone's given the man x-ray vision. He got on a tirade about Brass picking the wrong CSIs, that day shift should have done the gathering since the lot of us are maxed out on OT. He was pissed like never before.”

“Day shift?” Warrick felt the adrenaline start to pump through his veins. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, somehow they've gotten hold of Nick's numbers about solved cases and stuff. They're not happy with Grave having all the high-profile ones and some of them are rallying to get this case.”

“Wasn't it them handing it over to Grave to begin with?” He spat, wishing he had Ecklie, and his politics handy, to stuff them where the sun never shone on their administrator.

“Guess it didn't look hot at the time. It was us who tied the DBs together. Now they're wanting it and Ecklie just gave it to them. Says the two of you need to get in and get all the paperwork done. Day's gonna need it to be able to continue. Grissom is just about to call Nick about it.”

Warrick looked over at his man; his face was a stone-wall, jaws clenched together and nostrils flaring. Pretty much mirroring his own sentiments by the look of it.

“He just did.” Warrick spoke into the phone. “Is this definite? Days taking over?”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “Brass is in deep and I'm probably stuck in the lab for the rest of the year.”

“I gotta go. Keep us posted if something new pops up.” Warrick closed the phone, directing his attention to Nick.

Nick had apparently barely said a word during the discussion. He'd nod occasionally and his eyes would narrow. He locked gaze with Warrick and cleared his throat. “I get it, Grissom. I get it. I'm just gonna grab Warrick and come in and sign it off to days.” Then he listened attentively and a hand came up to run through his hair. “No. I can't promise that, Griss. Just don't ask me to.”

He closed the phone and they rose on cue, needing to get out of the place. Nick stopped to pay for the food, never noticing the woman flipping her fake eye-lashes at him in an attempt to get some attention. Warrick wanted to tell her she was on a lost cause but had no time before Nick thanked her and walked out. He set aim for the truck with long purposeful steps over the sun-hot asphalt. When he got to the passenger side, he hit the door with his fist.

“Watch my fucking car, would ya!” Warrick barked.

Nick hit the metal once again and turned away without a word. His shoulders tense and head downcast.

Warrick waited for the man to turn back and say something. Or do something, but nothing happened.

“Nick.” No reaction whatsoever. Not even a sign that he had actually heard someone call his name. Warrick was getting pissed; wasn't it enough to have Ecklie pull the case on them but now he had a sulking Nick on his hands too. Enough was enough. “Dammit, Nick!”

The man finally turned, nodding in his direction. Jaw set and face exuding an artificial calm that damned near scared Warrick. He'd rather had Nick go ballistic, on this deserted parking lot off Boulder, than look like he was about to call a hit man for Ecklie. It was damned unnerving to see this forced calm, especially when the gaze was dark and downright dangerous.

Warrick unlocked the car door with the remote, keeping his eyes on the man. Without uttering a word, Nick got into the truck, leaning up against the door with fingers flicking at something on the handle. Warrick didn't even bother to ask if he was all right; it was too evident that he was about to blow a fuse. But Nick would try and deny that he was at his rope's end all the same.

He simply put the SUV in motion and got out of the parking lot. What the fuck was there to say anyhow? He set a fast pace, needing to get to the lab and get some answers; to his face and personally as to why this was considered kosher? The case had been pulled and given to Days? Like all the nights and days they'd been slaving to find the smallest of evidence meant nothing. The tedious sifting of crap, in order to maybe find that one piece of evidence that might tie a culprit to a crime, was suddenly noting in comparison to budget? This fucking case was their baby, they had made heads and feet out of a myriad on seemingly unconnected tidbits of information. And now they had to hand it back to team that had messed up the first scene to begin with?

He stomped on the brakes, making the SUV's tires squeal as he pulled up to the shoulder of the road. His knuckles were turning white around the steering wheel and he swore. He silently told Ecklie to go fuck himself in fourteen different ways before he got his composure back. Then he hit hard at the steering wheel and leaned back to exhale.

“You ai'ght, bro?” The voice to his left was still calm, with a clear undercurrent of concern audible.

He turned to watch his man sitting there, eyes on him. He knew that concerned look, he'd adopted it on Nick a lot of times. The roles were reversed this time. “I'm gonna Stokes it and say – yeah, just fine.”

“Not doin' a very fine job on it, bro.” The creases deepened, eyes boring into his with the characteristic empathy shining through.

“Workin' on it,” Warrick sighed, repositioning himself. The frustration had lessened, but it wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. “And no, I'm still drivin'.”

“Wha-?” Nick protested. “I never -.”

“Lay off it, man,” Warrick gruffed. “You're still a lousy liar and I can read you like yesterdays news.”

He checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out onto the lane while wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Fun while it lasted, huh?” Nick stated laconically as he adjusted himself on the seat. “Guess we've just been demoted.”

The warning bells went off and Warrick looked over at the man staring ardently out the windshield. There was an odd chilliness to his voice, one that spoke of emotions surging under the surface and Warrick knew it; Nick wasn't about to let it go. But he wasn't about to drag anybody into it either. “Just fill me in if you're planning to go on a crusade, will yah?”

“Just drive,” Nick replied, never taking his eyes off the road.

 

 

The lab was unusually quiet when they walked in. day-shifters refused to meet with their eyes, saluting curtly and disappearing to their desks and labs.

“Great,” Warrick muttered when they proceeded, side by side. “We're pariah.”

“Let's just get the paperwork done and disappear.” Nick replied quietly, looking at the steaming man at his side. Warrick had been edgy since the outburst on the highway. “The lesser we're seen, the faster this will blow over.”

Warrick looked at him like he'd just offered to eat a goldfish alive just and Nick shrugged. He knew the politics, he knew when to lay low and bide his time. This was one of those occasions. He didn't care if the case was high or low-profile, the only thing he cared about was stopping a serial-killer, that was what this job was all about. Solving crimes and putting the offenders behind bars. He'd do what had to be done, whatever it took. He'd handle the repercussions later, he was used to it by now. Not very good at it, but used to it. It was funny how contemplating your own possible death changed perspectives; protocol and paperwork were not on the top of his list when peril lured behind the corner. His priorities had changed drastically.

He opened the door to the empty layout room and motioned for Rick to follow.“C'mon man, trust me on this one.” He boxed Warrick's arm amiably, trying to make the man simmer down.

“And how are they gonna know about your blue Transit, man? Where do we log hunches?” Warrick pointed out edgily, while pulling out a chair.

“We don't.” Nick shrugged. Laying his kit on the table, he looked at his pal. “It's owned by the man residing in the cabin at the suspected crime scene, that's all they're gonna know. And it is all we know for certain anyhow. There's an APB out on him, maybe they'll pick him up and sort this thing out. Maybe the place has nothing to do with anything. We have close to nothing, y'know that.” Nick sat down opposite his bud and let his tired gaze rest on him.

Warrick looked at him, all green-eyed anger and hard muscles, shaking his head at what he was hearing. “What the fuck, Nick? They pulled a case we put together from under our feet, and you're good with that? I recall someone telling me that a case was never just about the physical evidence. Oh hell, wait a goddamned sec, that was you! What's happenin' here?”

Nick shrugged, he recognized the anger and it was justified. No denying that. It wasn't productive and he was too tired to spill any energy on it right now. It had happened before, it would happen again. ”Let's just get this done and get outta here. My place okay with you? I'll help you chill and get rid of all that tension.”

Warrick met his eyes with utter consternation, creasing his brow further when Nick smiled calmingly at him. Then Warrick just rolled his eyes and pulled out the papers he needed to sign.

Nick let his eyes take in the muscular arms resting on the table top, watching the tendons and muscles move as Warrick signed paper after paper, putting them aside, in a neat stack. He wanted those arms around him, holding on hard and having him forget dead bodies and lost cases. He needed those hands to hold his wrists and pin him down on the bed, forcing him to give in. It was something he'd learned to treasure; the feeling of giving everything up for Rick. It was liberating, taking all his demons away for a while and left him helplessly wanting to be at someone's mercy. Someone he trusted implicitly. The only one he trusted with his body. His pit-stop for sanity. He'd never intended to go ga-ga over a co-worker and certainly not over his best bud. But Rick was who he needed and wanted.

He let his eyes wander up to the swelling biceps, imagining them around his waist, steely and hard as they moved together, searching oblivion for a few minutes. His eyes trailed higher, drawn to the small indention where the collarbones met, right under his man's strong neck. He wanted to have sweat pool there. He wanted to lick it and taste the scent of his man as he lay completed and lax, with breath running fast and uneven in the aftermath. He wanted the stubbly chin to rest on his shoulder, rubbing his skin while Rick moved inside of him, shutting his mind off from everything but the steady rhythm and the whispered words.

He watched the full lips, knowing how they felt around him. Moist and hot, working him with expertise and something that, he occasionally thought, was love. He'd never ask for Rick to love him, that was not his right. To Nick it was enough that he loved the man opposite him. That he was allowed to feel the hot skin pressed against him, grab onto him and let go without a second thought. That was really more than anyone could ask for.

Warrick lifted his eyes from the papers, locking gaze with his. The green penetrated his shields, always did.

Nick felt the blood rise to his cheeks and smiled self-consciously; embarrassed at having eye-fucked the man in the middle of a close-to-crisis.

“Nicky?”

The voice was deep and vibrating, the one that went straight to Nick's groin. He looked away, grabbing a paper. Right now was really not the time to get lost in the proverbial gutter. He eyed through the document, checking that everything was in order and then scribbled his name on the appropriate line.

“Nick?”

He had to look up and meet the eyes. Ducking his head when his tongue came out, reflexively, to wet his lips. “M'sorry, Rick.”

“For what?” Warrick's eyes were lingering on him, the expression having changed to a predatory one. It reminded him of a panther, proudly prowling around his prey and knowing he'd have him. It was just a question of how long he'd make, the more than willing victim suffer, before he'd take was was laid out for him. A look that sent shivers down Nick's spine and blood pooling in his groin.

“I didn't mean to – y'know, at the lab and all.“ He took the next document, peering up at Rick and grinning.

Warrick swallowed audibly and leaned forward over the table. Pupils dark and alluring, like melted lust waiting for an outlet. He was so damned proud to be able to make the man want him. To call that man his friend and lover.

“Start Hancocking them papers, Nicky. Coz' I'm five minutes from marking you as mine.”

An intense sensation of warmth exploded somewhere in the pit of Nick's stomach, spreading out to claim him, slowly and securely, with his rising heart-beat. He didn't bother to read through the documents he signed; he already knew every thing would pan out when he checked. All he needed right now was to be far from here, far from politics and dead bodies. All he needed now was to melt into Rick's steady hold. Be grounded by the man's strength and get some of it himself. Maybe it was the wrong way to handle this, but he couldn't care less.

 

 

Warrick felt the sweaty body, totally relaxed, heavy against his own. The back of Nick's head was lying on his shoulder, the rest of the man spread out, partly over him. The heated encounter had finally taken away all the tension and muted the shadows lingering in the dark eyes. He let his hand smooth the skin of the thigh flung over his own. Nick fingers still gripping his wrist, like a need for assurance. Nick had held on like he was about to drown if he let loose. Like the darkness would engulf him if he was left alone. Warrick knew the escape Nick was trying right now; he'd used it himself, a couple of years ago. To forget Nick, the sense of Nick and the body he'd find himself staring at and wanting, or to quell the need to walk into any joint where cards were dealt and try his luck. The promised adrenaline kick whispering his name, calling for him with the most seductive of voices. He'd taken what he could get to try and distance himself. It had been a dangerous lifestyle, he knew that, but at the time the need was too big. Trying to convince himself it was just friendship between him and his best bud had taken its toll. The denial wanted proof and made him use sex as means to escape. Just like the devil that kept calling on him to make that one bet or play that one hand. It never worked and he just wanted more and more instead of quelling that almost physical need. He was lucky he had come out clean when they got tested for HIV, he knew that. He'd used sex to get a moments respite, just like Nick was doing right now, using him not to let the anger and frustration, consume him totally.

Maybe he should feel used? Truth was that he didn't mind, on the contrary; to be able to help his bud by fucking him into the mattress was close to perfection. Almost. The guilt lay on another level all together. It was deeper and darker, tugging at him from layers he didn't want to admit were in him. He wondered if he'd ever understand the complexity of the man he was holding. Would he ever find out all there was? And did he really want to? The last bit of information had jarred him, no denying that. What else was there that would grab his soul and drag him inside, even deeper than he already was? Was he even ready for that? This love-shit really was exhausting, pulling at the very strings of who he'd kept telling himself he was. A man that always kept his cool, a man that would never be owned. And now he was discovering bonds that Nick-puppy-eyed-Stokes somehow had tied around him, with invisible chains of pure steel that had him feel all those emotions he wanted to deny even existed. Because life had seemed easier without them. All had gotten so complicated, and still he kept stringing himself tighter and tighter to the mentioned Texan.

He knew Nick didn't confide easily, he'd known that all along and still it jabbed at him that Nick still didn't feel secure enough to tell him everything. He'd give his body willingly but his fear and anger was still buried somewhere deep inside that muscled and toned body. And the fact of how much that bothered him was baffling Warrick. He'd never wanted to know everything about anybody, he was happy with just the body of most. A few years ago he'd taken what he was offered and never looked back to question the reasons. But now?

A small shudder ran through the body in his hold; sleep was finally claiming the stubborn man. Nick's head tilted to the side, the soft breaths fanning over Warrick's damp skin. Fingers still in a loose grip around Warrick's wrist. Sooner of later he'd have cover Nick up. But he'd wait until the man was sleeping deeply enough not to notice.

Warrick grinned at himself. He'd really fallen hard and helplessly. When had he ever lain in bed, cuddling and thinking about how to not bother the man he'd just fucked senseless? He'd always been the one with the smooth moves, frequently used to get out of anything that resembled a serious relationship. Now he was trapped under a body and he was pondering on how not to disturb the man splayed out over the bed and himself?

“Jesus Nicky,” he murmured to the sweaty head on his shoulder. “I outta shoot you for doing this to me.”

“Huh?” The man mumbled, half-asleep and moved slightly, having Warrick take advantage and slide out of the hold, turning the man to his side to spoon him. He reached out and gripped the wrists, knowing Nick felt calmer when he was grounded like that.

“Rick.”

The word was almost inaudible, only a mumbled drawl.

“Get some sleep, dammit.” He kissed the shoulder.

“Ya think I should'a broken into that cabin?” He was speaking clearer now, moving to stretch his legs.

Warrick growled. “You still back there? The case isn't ours any more, Nick. Not your responsibility any longer. Not that what happened, ever was. Can't you ever get that through your fucking head?”

“How does he get to the kids?” Nick mumbled. “The warrant should have entailed the cabin What if he finds them on the net? Lures them in? Those kid probably all were hooked up to the net. A message board? Chat room?”

Warrick sighed, wondering how long Nick had mulled this all over in his head? “You screwing up the investigation wouldn't have served anybody. We'll get the motherfucker, one way or another. EOD.”

“EOD?” Nick turned his head, looking at him, bleary eyed.

“End of discussion, man. You're so wiped out you can't even figure that one out? What does that tell you?” He pulled the man closer.

“That you've been hanging out in weird places?” Nick let out with a snort of laughter.

Warrick bit at the shoulder, nipping his way up the neck. “Shut up and get some fucking sleep or I'll really have to pop you one, smart-ass.”

Nick mumbled something into the pillow. Something that sounded like 'didn't complain about my ass a moment ago'.

Warrick rose to rest on his elbow, licking at the tendon on the neck, knowing full well what that did to Nick. Some things just had to be retaliated. Nick laughed, trying to move away by turning to his back and scooting to the left. Warrick was prepared and rolled to lay partly over the man, lips never leaving the hot skin, the palm of his hand moving further south, gliding over sweat slick nipples ad teasing them with the pad of his thumb.

Nick's hand came up to tug at his dreads. “We're too old for this.”

Warrick chuckled and rubbed the nipples into attention. Watching Nick's abdomen move with the increased rate of his breathing. The display of skin rippling over muscle was one of his real kinks, it always turned him on. He bent to suckle the perked nipple in between his lips while his fingers ghosted, as if by accident, over the spent member before he proceeded to the soft skin on the inner thigh. Applying just enough pressure to make it erotic, he craned his head to catch Nick's eyes. “You have all night and tomorrow to recuperate. I'll even phone in for some chicken-soup for the wrung-outs.”

Nick chuckled. “I was thinkin' about you and your back problems.”

Warrick moved to speak right above Nick's lips. “There are other ways to torment you, babe. I'm gonna suck you all in and lick you till you scream and beg.”

He smiled at the shudder running through the body under him and kissed the parted lips. Letting his tongue delve in and duel with Nick's. Starting out slow, hand still on the muscles of the lower abdomen, holding it still until Nick's hips moved up reflexively. The tip of his tongue playing inside wet heat, teasing with fast flicks at the lower lip. A deep groan left Nick when Warrick sucked the lower lip in between his own and nibbled on it.

The hold on his hair tightened and he was pulled into a deep, sloppy kiss that had his toes curl and breath hitch. The hungry, deep kisses were lethal when it came to his self-control and he had to break it off.

“You cheat,” he panted against the neck and trailed his fingers to touch the soft skin of the swelling arousal. One finger running up the underside, stopping at the crown, circling it once and going back down, lazily. A teasingly light touch. Nick was responding fast, hardening further under his fingertips.

“Rick, shit, you're gonna have me all riled up here!”

“Gonna have?” He quirked his eyebrow, looking at the man, who was pretty much like jelly in his hands. Sweet and delicious.

Nick laughed deep in his throat, his breath hitching when Warrick's fist curled around the hot swelling flesh at his reach, moving the skin over the swollen head, up and down in a slow and steady rhythm.

“You trying to kill me?” His man's voice had turned into a low purr.

Warrick grinned and applied a little more pressure on the sensitive vein, thumb playing the slit. Looking at Nick's blown pupils, he knew he was on the right track. “I'm gonna make you come so hard you scream, Nicky. Wanna wager a Jackson on that?”

“I'm -”

“Tired, baby?” He kissed the wet lips. “I know, that's why I'm doing all the work. You just lay back and take it. Mind you, I have cuffs if you wanna have it that way.” A lick to the trembling lower lip had Nick spread his legs invitingly.

Warrick scooted further toward his goal, slowly kissing and nipping his way down the chest and abdomen.

“No,” Nick panted, lifting his head off the pillow. “I'm all sweaty and gross. Oh shit, Rick, I need a shower.” The last sentence came out as a long moan when Warrick let his tongue follow the vein on the underside of the erection.

“Yeah, man you're a mess.” He pressed his own arousal to Nick's trembling thigh. “Another of my kinks; messy Nicky flat on his back, giving it all up.” Warrick closed his eyes and let the tip of his tongue follow the contours of the pulsating flesh in his hold. It was hot and silky, throbbing in his hand and he marveled at how true his words were. The sensation of Nick in his mouth was enough to send his own cock leaking.

Nick's head fell back with a breathless sound and the hand slid down to cup his neck. Soft growls spilled from the man in continuation when Warrick took him inside his mouth and suckled gently. The response was immediate, balls drawing up, cock throbbing and hips moving. Warrick grinned; Nick was too tired to hold back, too wiped out to do anything but enjoy the ride. The soft keening sounds that left him was testament of how close he was. Warrick suckled him deeper, holding his hips down with one hand while he let his tongue glide over the underside. Sucking him all in, and pressing his tongue to the underside as he pulled up. He kept a steady, slow rhythm, making Nick's fingers tense around his neck, the free hand finding Warrick's wrist and holding on.

Shifting his eyes, he saw Nick watching, pupils exploded under fluttering lashes, his name keened in rhythm with his mouth's decent on the silken skin. The voice was garbled, thick from the drawl that always came forth when Nick let all shields go and just lost himself in the moment. His legs spread wide in invitation, the small of his back arched off the mattress. Warrick groaned around the erection, feeling the first thrills of oncoming release along his spine. He pressed his tongue against the pulsating vein, humming deep in his throat. Nick's head fell back and his hips arched when he spilled inside Warrick's mouth, with sounds ripped from somewhere deep inside.

Warrick swallowed the first load eagerly, but the sounds and taste of his man had him on the verge. He let the still hard and shooting member fall to the arched abdomen, releasing its last loads over sweaty skin. His own cock was screaming for attention, and with a hand smeared with Nick's sticky semen it only took a couple of fast jerks, before he let go. Watching how their seeds intermingled on the streaked skin, he growled his lover's name. The sound primal and deep as it left him with his last load.

Panting for air, he let his brow rest on Nick's shoulder, his palm moving over the soiled abdomen, a shiver running through him at the sensation of their mingled release.

Nick stilled under him, breaths deep and heavy, his hand losing the grip on Warrick's neck, sliding slowly down his back.

Warrick lifted his face and smiled at the man. “Now you know all my kinks, Nicky. From blowing you to watching you come,” he confessed. Resting on his elbow he looked at the softly panting man, eyes closed, lashes dark against flushed skin. The fist gripping the sheet going lax. He kissed the corner of the mouth and pulled up the sheets.

“R-rick.” Nick's voice was low and sated, like a purr. “Love yah. An' I freakin' owe you twenty, old man.”

Warrick laughed, rolling Nick to his side like he had done before. Nick was heavy and pliant when Warrick nestled himself to spoon him. “Yeah, twenty hours of sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to start all over.”

Nick groaned, and this time it wasn't with pleasure.

Warrick grinned devilishly. “Who you callin' old, honey bun?”

The huff was definitely a protest but Warrick didn't mind. He held on and listened to the deepening breaths until he was sure Nick was sleeping. Not until then did he turn to lie on his back, one hand still on Nick's hip.

He looked up at the ceiling, wishing his Grams were still around. Because she had been right as always. She'd told him that he'd know when the one love he'd never forget, crossed his path. And that it wasn't always the one he'd end up with, but he'd never forget that special kind of connection. At the time he had just shook his head and thought she was a romantic fool.

He'd like to be able to tell her that he was right there with her; Warrick Brown, the fucking romantic fool. Grams would have poked him in his ribs and said. 'What I tell ya, young man? Ain't no way o' fightin' it, it's gonna get ya yet. An' it's gonna get tha' proud black ass o' yours good.”

Nick rolled to nestle up against him, snoring softly when he rested the stubbly chin on Warrick's shoulder. An arm landing heavily on his chest when the man settled, half draped over him. Warrick's fingers automatically wrapped around Nick's wrist, the pulse point in the crease of his thumb and index finger, the slow and steady rhythm a metronome to his own.

Warrick smiled drowsily; if he wasn't the analytical scientist he was, he'd have sworn it was a sign from Grams, laughing at his proud black ass.


	13. Chapter 13

Nick knew he shouldn't be doing this, not the first hour back at the lab. Not with a fresh scene waiting for him at the liqueur store on the corner of Franklin and 10th. Multiple rounds fired, one customer dead and the owner critically injured. Sara was already waiting for him there. He really shouldn't be in the vault, reading through the case that was taken from him.

The case file had a couple more added documents; the APB had found the Transit but not the driver. It had been sold to a car-dealer in north Vegas, leaving at least a trail to follow if nothing else. Problem was that the seller had not bought a new car or cashed in the check yet. Which led Nick to believe the man knew he was being investigated. Someone from the rehab had contacted him and let him know what was going on. If he had no cell-phone it meant that he'd either phoned in himself or had been contacted by e-mail. There had been computers in one of the classrooms. But the warrant had not allowed them to search anything that did not explicitly belong to Lemarr or Jared. If the man had called in and the good pastor hadn't reported that – chances were that the thing was bigger than he believed.

The next document showed removals of 50.000 USD from Jeremy Jensen's account, withdrawn from 5 different ATM's. All located in north LV, all withdrawn yesterday. Frenetically, he looked for information on the pulled surveillance videos and found nothing.

His mouth went dry. Why wouldn't they ask for the surveillance? Had he been with somebody at the time? Had he changed his appearance not to be recognized? Something was clearly up; it seemed he was about to flee and possibly start all over someplace else.

He dialed Brass' number and got to his voice-mail. He left a message for the captain to get back to him. Maybe he knew something. The case had been given to O'Reilly and Nick knew he wouldn't spill. Nick was sure Ecklie had seen to it that all concerned knew that Nick Stokes was not to be informed.

There was no information about car-dealers being questioned about Jensen having visited and possibly purchased a new car. It was probably still under works and nothing had popped up. Chances were that the car was purchased in some other name. Jensen had a Master's degree in financial economics – he probably knew more about burying paper trails than everybody in the lab combined. He was probably laughing his ass off at them right now. What had happened to make this escalate so fast? There had to be something that made him spiral out of control all of a sudden. Was it because it was September? Would he stop when the month ended? The more he pondered on the whys, the less he understood.

But it wasn't his problem any longer.

He put the binder back, closing his eyes and leaning up against the metal shelf to regain his composure. He'd get through this shift without losing his cool, he simply had to.

The decision lasted until he passed Archie's lab. The A/V tech spotted him through the glass wall and rose from his desk, waving him inside. Surprised he looked back, thinking the tech was waving at somebody else. There was nobody behind him and he arched his eyebrows at the man, indicating himself with his thumb in a surprised inquiry. Archie nodded frenetically and Nick opened the door and stepped in.

“Hi Arch, I didn't know I had anything pending?”

“Nick, I need to show you something. It's strictly off the record but you need to know.” He was watching the hallway nervously.

“What'cha got Archie?”

“Dispatch got this strange call from a phone-booth near McCarran. It's this dude phoning 911 and and saying he saw his bud getting into a car and never coming back. Says he knew something was wrong because they'd made a date to grab some burgers after the dude's last customer.” Archie was looking though the files.

“Male prostitutes?” Nick asked.

Archie nodded. “Sounded young too. Didn't wait for dispatch, hung up right away. Maybe kids trying to earn a fast buck?”

“Damn!” Nick leaned in, training his eyes on the screen.

The voice on the file sounded far away, like he was keeping the phone away from himself. Probably to avoid his voice being recognized. Chances were that the speaker was known by Vice, or feared being picked up and being exposed. The traffic in the background indicated that the call was made from a busy street. The words were in fact chilling if you put them in context.

“Hey, I wanna report a possible crime. My bud got into a car thirty minutes ago. A large SUV, I didn't see the plate.”

The dispatch operator interrupted, asking for the caller's name.

“Send someone out to look for this john, he's up to no good. I can guarantee you that. Fucking creep asked me if I was Muslim and when I said no, he just drove off. Scary shit. He picked up my pal Malcolm and I ain't seen him since that creep took him. Him and me were supposed to meet up and grab some burgers.”

The operator tried again. 'Sir, I need a name and a location'.

“Dark SUV, pale-faced john. Just find him!”

Then the phone was hung up.

Nick felt the blood freeze in his veins.

“They couldn't send anybody, they just didn't know what to look for. Took them ten minutes to just get the location. Dispatch wanted me to clean the tape up and store it in case something happens and they need the call as evidence. The caller just sounded so young and I thought about your case.”

“Yeah, Arch. God thinking. Did you cal O'Reilly?”

The lab-tech nodded. “Yeah, but he said it's not enough. That he'd get his chops busted if it turned out to be a prank call and he called out the troops for nothing; the budget and all, you know. He alerted the Henderson Police and the Highway Patrol and told them to keep an eye out. He checked the Amber alerts but there was nothing new.”

Nick felt his heart speeding up. “Listen to me Arch, it's between me and you. You call Brass and and tell him I went to the Rehab-center to check this out. Don't tell anybody else and if anybody ask you know absolutely nothing. I'll pick up a satellite phone and call it in if I find something, if not - I'll just come back.”

“Nick, you sure -”

“Not a word, Archie!” He ran out of the lab and to the locker room. He didn't even bother with his kit but took his spare gun instead. He passed by Judy's desk, signing out a satellite cell without mentioning his planned itinerary at Judy's inquiry. He simply smiled at the woman instead.

He was sweating bullets when he pulled out of the parking lot and set course for Boulder Highway. There was no way he'd process another crime scene with a molested child thrown into a dumpster. He'd been rescued from a certain death, he owed a lot to a lot of people and he had barely begun repaying his debt. If there really was any kind of God, he prayed he'd be in time to stop this maniac. Whatever it took, this ended here.

 

 

Warrick had tried to call Nick three times already and now he was pissed,. It was one thing to keep a low profile at work and another thing not to answer your phone. It was becoming a frequent habit of Nick's. His and Greg's case had turned out to be an insurance fraud; owner setting his warehouse on fire and forgetting to wear gloves then sprinkling the goods with kerosene. A couple of big fat finger prints on the can containing the incinerator was always a sure way to end your ass in the slammer.

He'd been back at the lab and handed his finger-prints off to Mandy and the swabs to Hodges when the Texan finally called back. “Where the fuck are you?” was his eloquent reply when he spotted the name on the display.

“You don't wanna know,” came the cryptic reply. “Look, I'm about to hit radio-shadow in ten minutes but I have a satellite with me so I'll call if I need your help. I just don't wanna drag you into this if the shit hits the fan.. Haven't heard from Brass, have you?”

The all too familiar warning bells went off at once. “I thought you were at a scene with Sara and Sofia?”

“Yeah, well -.” There was a long silence and Warrick's warning bells turned into a veritable siren.

“What the fuck, Nicky?”

“There was this call and there's just something I need to check out. I'll call later, just hang cool, bro. Why'd you call?”

“Forget why the fuck I called, where are you at, Nick? Line's scratchy.” He was growling into the phone, not believing the man was refusing to tell him what was up.

“Can't tell. Rick, it's just somethin' I gotta do, I just - talk to you later. Gotta go.”

The fucking man abruptly shut the phone on him. And Warrick remained staring at it. Then the word 'call' registered and he set course on the A/V lab. Flinging the door open and slamming his palms against the desk.

“Where is he?”

Archie looked scared and he had reason to. Warrick felt he was just about to snap if he wasn't dealt the cards.

“I can't tell, I promised -,” the tech halted his speech, shifting backwards in his seat when Warrick leaned in closer.

“Not gonna tell you again. Where?”

The lab tech lifted his hands in the air. “This phone call came in and I thought it had something to do with your serial-case. O'Reilly said there wasn't enough to go on so Nick said he'd drive out there and -”

Warrick was already out the door almost trampling Sanders that happened to cross his path.

“Whoa!” Greg jumped out of the way. “Where's the fire?”

Warrick had no time to explain anything, he had to get more ammo to his gun and the key to his truck. “No time to chat, Greg.”

The younger man tagged along. “Yeah? Well, Grissom told me to check if you need me to do the paperwork, if not, I gotta clock out and go home.”

“Not now, Greg.” He clipped the ammo onto his belt and reached for the jacket.

“Warrick?”

“Sanders, stay outta this! I gotta go see what the fuck that dumb-ass Texan is up to.”

“Nick? He in trouble?”

“Dunno, but with his track record -.”

Greg already had his head in his locker, pulling out the windbreaker.

“Where you think you're going?” Warrick growled, making his way past him.

The younger man silently followed in Warrick's furious pace, out to the parking lot and climbed in on the passenger side.

Warrick glared. “I don't have time -.”

“Then drive,” Greg answered and buckled himself in.

Warrick cursed out loud and the tires squealed in protest when he pulled out.

 

 

He parked behind a group of trees on the hill, straight ahead of the cabin, the car shielded by trees. He got out quietly, keeping his flashlight low, to illuminate the rocky ground but not give him away. Ahead of him was a steep slope leading to a ravine with a small stream of water at the bottom. There was just the deep ravine between him and the cabin; around 500 yards by his estimate.

He sank to his haunches, listening carefully. All that could be heard was the wind rustling the leaves. Looking out into the darkness, he started wondering if he was totally wrong after all? But with the vivid images of the last corpses, dumped in litter, he rose to his feet. Something told him to go on, look closer and he obeyed. The flashlight uncovered only small portions of the surrounding at a time. This was a different scene from the cured one on the other side of the hillside; this was wild and unkempt. Broken twigs surrounded the trees further down, bushes sticking up wherever the terrain would allow it. He let the light shine on the road to the cabin. The one he had come up on was no more than a cleared path.

The light reflected briefly on something and Nick's heartbeat increased. The cabin wasn't deserted after all, there was a car parked in front of it, the brake-lights reflecting a sharp red. He started downhill, forced to take it slow due to the unsteady terrain of loose sand and rocks. The stream at the bottom of the ravine was approximately five feet wide, with water purling around protruding rocks. The climb on the opposite hillside was even steeper than the descent; he had to grab at dried grass to heave himself up. Arriving at the top, he heard his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. He now had a clear view of the rehab center to his right; no lights were on and silence persisted. The suspicion that he had jumped the gun started to grow as he made his way to the parked car. Laying his hand on the hood he felt adrenaline course through his veins. It was warmer than the air and the sun had been down a long time. It could only mean one thing – the car had been driven not long ago. It was a dark, anonymous SUV, like the one described in the call.

He looked around, letting the light sweep the ground and when it fell on a dirty sneaker in the grass, he let his head sink for a while. Taking deep calming breaths, he proceeded towards the abandoned shoe. Kneeling at its side, the light affirmed that the shoe had not been long out there. It was relatively clean, not affected by the weather. It seemed more accustomed to asphalt than to rocks to judge by where and how the pattern on the soles showed signs of wearing and tearing.

He looked around and found footsteps in the dried grass ahead. Taking the shoe he followed the trail, having to stop and look for more signs when the grass ended and gravel took over. The footprints were barely visible on the pebbled path. He had to advance very slowly, assuring himself he hadn't lost track, over and over again. The path was close to the steep descent, a murky wooden fence the only barrier.

He was close to the rising hillside sheltering the cabin, when he heard the soft sound of singing from somewhere nearby. He stopped to listen, holding his breath. There was a door behind a thick layer of ivy rising on the hillside with the aid of wooden planks. It seemed to form a small hut, the green roof in a slight angle. He narrowed his eyes and walked forward, light on the path not to stumble and announce his arrival. The ivy had an opening to the right, facing the valley and the buildings. Shedding light over the leaves he realized the wooden structure formed a kind of hall leading to a partly open door. And it was from there the soft sound of a small choir leaked out. There was barely room to slide in through the thick wooden door and the frame without having to open it wider. He had to move the cross-bar to the side, hoping it wouldn't screech and give him away.

It looked like a wine cellar, racks for bottles covering the walls, the middle of the floor paved with stones. At the end there was another open door but still no light. The song sounded clearer now, clear enough for him to recognize it as “Onwards Christian Soldiers.”

He shuddered.

Just for a moment, he contemplated turning back and calling for help. He was alone and had no idea how many were in there, praising the Lord. A lost sneaker the only indication that something might be wrong. He just stood there, debating with himself when the singing ended and a muffled voice spoke about honor, pride and divine retaliation.

In between the words he heard a desperate moan.

Then a new hymn started, something he didn't even recognize. Anger filled him; the profanity of it all making him feel sick. He arrived soundlessly at the door, peeking inside. It seemed to be a fairly naked room, nothing but stone walls and a dirt floor. At the end there was a closed door, light leaking out from the fissure between it and the frame. A movement to his left had him narrow his eyes and he inhaled sharply at the sight of a young boy tied up on the floor. The face was tear-streaked, hands tied together and the rope fastened on a wooden pillar, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. The white cloth used as gag was bulky and dirty, forcing the young boy to keep his mouth open. He was still fully clad, missing only one shoe and the attire he wore spoke of a rough life.

Nick slid through the door, fishing for his ID and flashing it to the boy. The desperation in the boy's eyes didn't lessen; sobs wracked the small body and Nick laid a hand on the shoulder to calm him down. He found the clasp-knife and started on the rope that tied the boy to the pillar. It took its sweet time to cut the boy loose and Nick felt his shirt dampen from pure fear before he was done.

The boy was still shaking and sobbing and Nick had no other alternative than to drag him to his feet, hold the waist with an arm and walk backwards, easing the boy out as soundlessly as possible. The hymn and preaching of superiority continued endlessly, rising in volume. When they stepped out in the cool air, he pulled out the flashlight and grabbed the shoe he had let fall to the ground. Hoisting the boy up onto his shoulder, he started walking. He didn't stop until he was out of sight. Breathing heavily by then, having half-jogged over the pebbled path, descended the steep hillside until he'd reached the stream, his lungs burned. He let the boy slide down from his shoulder and onto rocky ground. He loosened the ropes still tied around the boys arms and feet, while trying to regulate his own breathing. When the boy was freed, he looked at Nick with distrust.

He looked at the boy in the beam of the flashlight; the desperation seemed to have lessened. Hiccups shook the small body. “Promise not to scream when I take the gag off?” he asked. “We're gonna be in deep if you do.”

The boy nodded jerkily.

The knot was easy to loosen up and when the cloth fell to the ground the boy's pained sobs were mingled with hiccups.

“You gotta drink,” Nick advised, keeping his voice as low as possible.. He cupped his hands and tasted the water, it seemed fresh enough to drink. “Just a couple of sips, you'll feel better.”

The boy did as told and the sobs and hiccups subsided.

“You okay to walk now? We need to get to my car that's parked up there. Then we'll call for help.” Nick offered the shoe he had been carrying all the way down.

The boy took it and slid it on, fingers trembling as he tied the laces. “I'm ready,” he said and looked up at Nick.

“Scout, huh?” Nick extended his hand to help the boy up the rise. He didn't actually think he'd take it, not after what he'd been through, but he did. A small bony hand gripped his and they started up the hillside.

“Can you speak now?” Nick wondered and the boy nodded anew.

“You know how many there were in the other room?”

The boy shook his head. “Dunno, but there were three of them carrying me inside.”

“Were they armed?”

A nod. “Some guns and some kind of rifle, I think.”

“Ai'ght, we're gonna get to my car. It's parked up there, behind some trees.” He pointed in the general direction, repeating his intended actions to calm the boy. “Then I'm gonna call Brass for help.”

“Brass?” The boy asked.

“Yeah, Jim Brass. He's a detective and I'm a crime scene investigator at the LV police. He'll help us out. I just don't want these perps go get away with what they did to you.“

An angry cry clipped the still night air and they both froze.

“He's gotta be inside somewhere, fucking find him! Shoot the fucker when you do!”

Nick swore. They were half-way up the hill and the perps were armed. To not risk the boy's life, he saw only one viable option. There was no way of starting the car and jetting out without the noise alerting them and they were armed. Stalling the nut cases, taking them out if necessary was the only logical way if they wanted to get out of this unharmed. He hauled up his car keys. “Listen to me, here's the keys to my car. You go up there, it's real close and get into the car. Wait for me there and don't open the doors for anybody. Think you can do that?”

The boy's lower lip trembled.

“They're armed, I need to stall them and make sure they don't hurt you. They're looking for you inside. I'll try and lock them in there. I need to do that alone and I need you in a safe place. Don't even think about taking off with my car, you have no idea where we're at and you so don't wanna get lost in the desert. Okay? You call Brass, there's a satellite phone on the passenger seat with his number listed. It's just like a cell phone, only bigger. Think you can handle that?”

The boy met his eyes and nodded after a while.

“Just tell him you're with me and answer all questions he's got. Got that?”

The boy nodded jerkily, took the keys and stuffed them in his pocket. Then he started up the slope, sending a stream of pebbles and rocks scurrying down.

Nick was all but sure about his decision but the fact was that the offenders didn't know he was there. They had no idea there was somebody else than a boy scared out of his wits. There was some advantage to the situation after all. What chance would they have had if they drove away, followed by a car with two shooters inside? Cursing himself for getting them both into deep shit, he ran down the slope, hitting his knees on the gravel as he lost his footing and rolled down the last part until he landed by the stream. With a moan, he was up on his feet and latched onto protruding rocks, dried grass and twigs to heave himself up. The cross-bar and the sturdy lock on the door would keep them occupied for a while, he only had to get there while they were still inside.

He felt the taste of blood in his mouth as he reached the pebbled path. He turned to let the light shine on the opposite slope. The boy was nowhere to be seen. The voices from inside debated loudly, laying blame on each other.

 

Next thing he knew, there was a large mass coming his way, knocking him off balance. His heart literally stopped, not a sound escaped him when sharp teeth crushed his lower arm with a dry popping sound. A low growl and gleaming eyes alerted him that the thing attacking him was a dog. Stumbling back to evade the attack, he felt the murky railing tweak in protest and knew he was too close to the edge. The dog let go and yellowish teeth glimmered in the beam of light. He pulled his gun and shot when the dog took aim for his neck. The shot went off too late and the dog's weight landed on his chest with full force.

The ground vanished from under him and he fell backwards onto the railing and down the rocky slope. It felt like he had no air left in his lungs when the momentum sent him rolling into darkness.


	14. Chapter 14

Warrick knew full well why Greg Sanders was white as a sheet besides him. He kept a steady pace at 110 Mph, driving on the fast lane, occasionally having to surpass slower vehicles, to the right. He honked his horn hard at any Grandma Moses in his path, cursing as he had to ease up on the accelerator for only a second.

Hence, Greg Sanders was having the ride of his life and his knuckles where turning white from the hard grip on the seat under him.

His cell-phone went off and he growled at Greg to get it, he couldn't risk answering at this speed. The tremor was clearly noticeable when Greg leaned over and picked the phone from Warrick's vest pocket.

“Brass?”

Warrick's heart took a leap.

“I dunno, gotta ask,” Greg spoke into the phone. “How long till we're there, if we're not smashed dead, that is?”

“45 minutes, tops,” Warrick replied through gritted teeth.

“Less than an hour,” Greg relayed. “Why?”

The silence that followed was pure agony and Greg merely nodded at the phone. Whimpering a curse when he finally closed it.

“What?” Warrick's voice exploded, cutting through the tension.

Greg swallowed and cast a furtive glance in Warrick's direction, who just growled to get the younger man to forward the information.

“A boy phoned from the satellite phone Nick brought with him.”

“So Nick was right? At least he won't be fired and kicked out on his stubborn ass right away.”

“Nick was right,” Greg affirmed.

“And?” Warrick gripped the steering wheel harder, having to swallow the sudden onset of nausea. “Why was the boy calling and not Nick?”

“Brass didn't know. Nick sent the boy to his truck and instructed him to call. The kid's hiding out, waiting for rescue. Nick went back to stall them.” Greg tried valiantly to keep a light tone in his voice.

“He what?” The anger was about to pop a vein in Warrick's right temple. “The fucker did what? Jesus, I'm gonna have to kill him myself. What the fuck was he thinking?”

“They had guns, Warrick! The boy heard a shot and then there was nothing.”

The nausea was back full force; he fought to keep the bile rising from spewing out and showering the windshield.

“How long ago?” He didn't even recognize his own voice any longer. It sounded broken and hoarse.

“Brass was not sure, maybe ten-fifteen minutes. Look, Warrick, we don't know what happened. Maybe there's a logical explanation for Nick not showing up. Maybe he was the one firing the shot? Maybe he -,”

“Is fucking dead,” Warrick wheezed. “And if he's not, I'll fucking strangle him myself this time.”

“He still saved the boy,” Greg tried.

“I don't give shit about who he saved. The SOB's gonna pay for running off on me and -,” his voice trailed off. He just couldn't say it. “I just don't get it,” he continued, voice garbled and raw. “What went through that thick head of his? Hasn't he heard of backup? Wasn't there a working phone in the county so he could have called me before he went off on this crusade? Why the fuck would any sane man go off alone and do this? Next thing you know, he's gonna blow up the lab.”

Greg looked out the side window and Warrick realized that he's just put his big foot in his mouth, right down to the knee. “Aw, shit. I didn't mean -.”

“I know what you mean,” Greg said. “Sometimes bad things just happen. And Nick - I don't know, he's changed a lot. I guess you do when bad things happen to you. It's likes he's retreating somehow, like wanting to prove he doesn't need anyone. I think it's survivor's guilt. Wouldn't surprise me at all.”

“Yeah well, shit happens to everyone. But Nick?” The vein on his forehead started throbbing again.”First he gets -” he had to clamp down on the words, not believing how close he'd been to forwarding what Nick had told him in confidence. The thing he didn't want anybody to know. He was really spiraling out of his mind here. “The man is just a fucking walking target. If it were up to me, I'd never let the two of you out alone on a crime scene. Jesus Christ, held at gun-point, twice, stalked, buried alive, and explosions. What the fuck is up with the two of you?”

“Yeah? “ Greg snorted. “How many crime scenes have you noticed us working together?”

Warrick risked a glance to his right.

“Just keep your eyes on the road, “Greg said. “If I count after Nick's box incident, I think it's been twice. And always with cops all over the place. I think Grissom already has it covered. And we have to turn left, in about half a mile, so you'd better start prying that foot off the pedal.” The tone was dry.

Warrick hoped the younger man didn't notice that his hands were actually trembling and the grip on the steering wheel was more to prevent him from imploding, than keeping the truck steadily on the road. He'd never live through letting Greg know how messed up he was.

“You try the satellite-phone,” Warrick prodded, sneaking a glance at Greg.

The younger man pointed to the road and re-dialed. He waited, cell-phone to his ear. At last he spoke quietly. “Line's busy, Warrick. Someone must be talking either to the kid to keep him calm, or to Nick. No way of telling. The situation may already be resolved.”

“Just keep calling,” Warrick growled.

Greg sighed and hit the re-dial all over, keeping his eyes on Warrick and shaking his head at the usual beeping that indicated a busy line.

Warrick expected his heart to jump out of his chest at any minute.

 

Nick woke from the cold water, showering over his face in small waves; trickling into his nose and ear. Opening his eyes, it was all a blur of darkness and shadows dancing strangely in his field of vision. A wave of nausea hit him when he lifted his head. His right arm refused to move, and the pain that shot through him at the trial had reality kick in.

Rising to sit made the the world tilt around him, making some sort of macabre dance. He swallowed hard, fighting the nausea. His right arm was out of use, that was for sure and he had to grit his teeth and lift it with his left, resting it against his abdomen. That simple movement sent him panting and it took its sweet time to recuperate enough to steady it with his vest. The noise in his ears subsided enough for him to hear pieces of conversation up the hill. Angry sounding voices, snippets of a loud debate about whether to stick together or divide, for a more efficient search. They were obviously still looking only for the kid, very pissed at each other. The beam from the flashlights criss-crossed the terrain. Steadily creeping closer. And he was like a sitting duck in the middle of the stream.

Then he witnessed the beam of light hovering over a point up the hill. The voices stilled for a moment. All flashlights focusing on the specific point. A 'what the fuck' was angrily spat before they all proceeded to investigate.

 

He didn't even dare try and rise to his feet, he crawled over the sand and rocks, aiming for the group of young Mountain Hemlocks he saw silhouetted against the sky. All he knew was that he had to get to the car. And he had to cross the stream while the offenders were otherwise occupied. He took aim for the last tree, the one from which he'd have a clear path up the opposite hillside. It looked like 50 yards but felt like 50 miles. He crawled onwards, scraping up his knees and the palm of his left hand At last he couldn't take it any more but rose to his feet, the world going haywire around him and he ducked into the high grass, head first.

His stomach cramped in protest, sending him dry-heaving from exhaustion. He realized that it was his broken arm that caused most of the discomfort. It pulsating wildly, the throbs reverberating in his head, sending cold sweat running down his back. He needed to find something to steady it with. Feeling around for dry twigs, he settled on two curved pieces that seemed to be somewhat of the right length. Steeling himself, he pulled his arm out from his vest, resting it on the twig in his lap. That brought on an acute onslaught of nausea and he paused, breathing hard and swallowing down the bile. Looking up he noted that two of the lights had crept considerably closer, the third had fallen back but was descending the hillside fast. The fear that cursed through his veins numbed him and he was able to steady the arm between the twigs with the two latex gloves he found in his vest pocket.

He rose gingerly, resting his weight up against a sturdy tree. The world took only a couple of swings this time and he was even able to breathe. His heart kept jumping in his chest, pounding so hard it almost drenched all other sounds. But parts of the conversation managed to trickle through the white noise.

“What the fuck you draggin' the shovel with ya for?”

“Gotta bury Princess by the stream, I'm not going to dig with my bare hands.

Nick shivered; he really didn't want to know who Princess was or why she needed to be buried.

“He must have gotten up the hill and gotten to the road somehow. Let's check it out.”

The blood literally froze in his veins, sending chunks of ice clattering in his temples. They had guns and the boy was trapped in a car. It would take nothing to shoot it to pieces. He looked for his own weapon, only to find the holster empty. He vaguely remembered drawing it and shooting, what had happened next was a blur of swirling rocks before his eyes, and then blackness.

The only option left was to lure the perps away, further up the stream and crawl his way up the hill while they were looking elsewhere. He felt the knife in his pocket, the only weapon he had left and decided to sacrifice it. Gritting his teeth he steeled himself and threw the knife as far away as his remaining strength allowed. It fell down into the water, a splashing sound followed by the clatter of metal against rocks.

“You hear that?” Feet started running, the lights coming straight at him and he stayed perfectly still behind the trunk. If he took cover by sinking down into the sheltering grass, he was not sure he'd be able to get back on his feet.

He hadn't managed to throw the knife very far, but in the night the sounds were louder and deceiving. When the three lights passed him, he started up the hill. The second step had him break a twig, sending him gasping for air and stumbling forward, a flood of pebbles clattering down the slope.

The instance he landed hard on his knees, pain shooting through him and pushing the air out of his lungs, he knew.

The voices had silenced and the sharp light crept up over the hillside, fast steps coming his way. He fought to get bask up on his feet, his hands grasping for anything in reach. The click of a gun being unsecured stopped his struggle. Turning around, he was blinded by a sharp light.

He had nowhere left to run.

His gasps for air sounded harsh and loud.

“It's the fuckin' cop! You gotta take this one out yourself, Jerr'. I can't shoot a cop. That'd get me the chair. Just shoot the pig and bury him.”

Nick recognized Lemarr's voice immediately.

“You told me nobody'd ever find out!” The younger voice belonged to the Pinchillo kid.

“Dawg, if they catch your sorry ass, you'll be ratting me out for candy.” Lemarr snored. “Ain't takin' that risk. You don't get outta shooting a cop.”

“I have this one,” a voice said behind the glaring light. “You keep looking for the other.”

“Yeah, I'll take the big gun for the little shit. You take that dawg; an eye for an eye.”

Nick realized he had finally met Jeremy Jensen. Now all he could do was wait for the bullet. The nausea made him swallow back the bile not to embarrass himself totally.

“You stay right there,” the voice behind the light ordered him.

Nick smiled involuntarily. The madness of the spoken words were total. Where was he supposed to go from here? His eyes were slowly adapting and he was able to make out the contour behind the flashlight. The man appeared short and skinny under what seemed like some sort of cloth. Surely some home-made religious attire, with the letters SoS embroiled on the chest.

The man was apparently hesitating to pull the trigger. Nick figured that he should be dead already, why was the man holding back when the had all power? Did he take pleasure in watching his victims in their last moments in life? Was that what got him off? Jeremy Jensen just stood there, gun trained at him, the shovel in a secure grip in his left hand.

Nick realized that if he'd only get to the gun, he might have a chance.

But the white noise was increasing, mingling with the sound of his own desperate heart-beat. The fear that ran through his veins forced him to keep his eyes on the gun, the barrel was the only thing that seemed in total focus, everything else was blurred.

“Why did you come here? I can't get out of this any longer, this was to be the last ceremony, and we would have been gone. Why did you have to ruin that?”

The words penetrated the ringing sound in his ears. Nick's eyes shifted, looking at the man, bathed in light from above, making everything seem surreal.

The beam from the flashlight left his face and made a 30 angle degree shift, toward the top of the hill. The barrel of the gun moving away from him, following the beam of light.

That was all he needed; one moment when focus was on something else than him.

He lunged forward, his shoulder hitting the legs of the man and had him stumble backwards. Jeremy Jensen emitted a startled yelp when he lost his grip on the gun and the shovel. Nick tried to crawl to the weapon, hoping to get to it before Jeremy did. It was his last chance.

But he was too slow and the man got to his feet, grabbed the gun and turned it back on him. Sounds of sobs filled the air. Nick took leverage with his good arm, desperately trying to launch himself anew, when the shot was fired.

It hit him in the left leg, with a force that sent him to his back. The sensation of red hot knives being stabbed into him had him breathless and oddly stunned. A hysterical laughter escaped him. Pushing the last of the air in his lungs out when he his legs refused to obey him, despite his frenetic trials to get away. Someone let out pained moans and he realized that it must have been his voice that emitted the strange sounds.

The shots that followed echoed in his head, and had him instinctively curl up into a fetal position, his eyes on the scene unfolding before him.

He wasn't able to fully comprehend what he saw, and he suspected it was some kind of hallucination, borne out of his fear..

 

 

“It's here,” Greg said. “The dirt road that's barely visible. That's where Brass says they pinpointed the GPS-signal from Nick's car.”

“You sure?” Warrick's hands were glued to the steering wheel by now. He doubted he'd be able to let go.

Greg threw him a desperate glance. “Do we really have time to debate this?”

Warrick turned into the bumpy road that seemed to consist of no more than two wheel-tracks in the grass. The brake lights of Nick's cars saluted him with their reflexions and he exhaled with a growling sound.

“Drive straight to the edge,” Greg insisted. “We need light to see what's going on. We know he's not in the car with the kid. He'd have called you if he was.”

“We're sitting duck's like that.” Warrick responded tersely. “The moment I stop the car, you get out and retract.”

“Why?”

Warrick hit the brakes. “Explosion, remember? No fucking discussion. You get to Nick's car and check on the kid.”

The car rolled to a stand-still and Greg muttered when he opened the door and slid out while Warrick wordlessly followed suit.

What Warrick saw down the slope ahead of him had him sink to his knees in despair. He gripped his gun, holding it with both hands and trained it at the scene. The light didn't reach low enough for him to make out exactly what was happening down below. But the glimmer of a gun was far too evident.

A light moved in their direction, searching them out and the next thing he knew was two figures rolling down the hillside in an disorganized mass of limbs. He had no way of telling who it was that struggled for their lives. Still, he was sure one of them was Nick. The darkness increased the lower they got and Warrick clutched the gun, with no other option than to wait for a clearer view.

He rose to his feet and in that instance a shot was fired, sending Nick to his back with a strangled sound, his face illuminated by the beam of the fallen flashlight. Warrick pulled the trigger, hitting the other man in the shoulder at first, watching the flash as the gun fired once more. He never hesitated when he emptied the magazine into the man on the slope. He was running down the hill, stumbling on the rocks and sliding down on his knees, still firing his gun until it clicked. How he finally got to the fallen man he had no idea; the only thing he did was lift him up by grabbing the odd cloth's shoulders and shaking him hard. There was no sign of life and he just let him fall back into a heap, while he turned and made his way to Nick.

“Nick? Warrick? What the-?” Greg's frantic voice carried over from the hill top.

“Stay back!” Warrick hollered while taking the last two steps to Nick's side, gripping his man's neck and looking into wide open, confused eyes. “Fuck you man,” he wheezed breathlessly. Nick blinked, a low moan escaping when he tried to move. His lips moved but nothing came out.

Letting his eyes rake over the body, he took in the broken arm, twigs and latex gloves used to try and stabilize it. The sleeve soiled with blood, gaping holes evident under the tears in the fabric. A steady stream of blood coming from a bullet hole above the knee. The jagged cut deep enough to have the blood pouring out; soiling his pants right down to the calf.

“Rick?” Nick's voice was no louder than an exhale.

“Greg!” Warrick hollered. “Get me the first aid kit and the water bottle from the car, just throw it down and get back to the boy.”

“How-?” Greg stood at the brink, looking down the slope and his flashlight shivered.

“Now dammit!” He had to keep a hand on Nick's chest, keeping him down when he struggled weakly and tried to get up. “Stay down,” he ordered, still trying to assess the damage done. The cuts and scrapes on what he saw of Nick's bare skin, were too many to count.

“Got it,” Greg's informed them with a breathy voice. “I'm, coming down.”

“No!” His order tolerated no debate. He didn't want the young CSI to see his colleague like this. He knew Nick well enough to sense the tension in his body at Greg's words. Nick was a private man, he didn't want anybody to see him like this. “Put the water bottle in the bag and roll it down. Then get back to the boy.”

The sound of the bag rolling down had him up on his feet, fetching it before it rolled by them.

“How is he, how bad?”

“Get back to the boy, now! I'm fucking ordering you!”

He already had the gauze in his hand, tying it around the deep gash on the leg. Nick moved uneasily, trying to get away. Warrick looked at the man; pain contorting his face.

“R-rick,” he stuttered through clenched teeth. “Tha' hurts.”

“Stay still you fucking moron, don't move!” He rolled the man to his back, opened the vest, and pulled the shirt open with one tug. Then he scooted the tee-shirt up, avoiding the mangled arm that lay lifelessly over Nick's abdomen and saw the damage done. Nick's good arm came up to stop him, with a weak 'no'.

The rib-cage looked like it had gone through a dry-tumbler. Angry red welts and dark patches covering it. The ribs on the left side sticking out further than the ones on the right. One sharp edge clearly visible under the darkening skin.

“R-rick, I – I gotta – get – up.” The words were next to indecipherable, spoken in a staccato rhythm, punctuated with pained breaths and convulsive swallowing.

“Up? You nuts?” He truly was ready to whack Nick by now, the anger turning into frustration at his man's refusal to listen.

A shaky hand came up to try and grip Warrick's wrist. “B-back-rock.”

He finally looked at the face contorted with pain. His left side was angled peculiarly.

Without reflecting, he slid his arm under Nick's neck, securing his grip. He moved his right hand to the man's hip, surprised when it slid over an empty holster. “Where's your gun?”

“Lost it, Rick, can't breathe! Up!” Nick sounded winded, like if every breath he took was pure pain.

“Ok Nick, you tell me if I hurt you, blink or something if you feel more pain. I'll get you off that rock. “

He pulled the man up against his chest, keeping his eyes on Nick's all the time. Nick merely exhaled with relief and leaned his head against Warrick's shoulder, drawing in air. Taking it slow, Warrick held on until Nick's back was close to vertical. He noted the pointed rock having been pressed into Nick's back and grimaced in sympathy. His bud winced when the broken arm slid over the jean-clad thigh.

They rested there, Nick curled up against his chest, breath running easier now. Then he swallowed harshly and nodded against his shoulder. “Rick, much better, le'ggo.”

“Right.” Warrick snorted. “We're gonna stay here until the ambulance arrives. I got'cha bro.”

“No, no,” Nick mumbled with eyes closed. “Get the boy outta here.” He had to draw a shaky breath. “Two more with guns.”

“What? You're saying there's more of them on the loose? Armed?”

Nick nodded, “Y'need to get outta here.” He took a shaky breath. “Lookin' for the kid.”

Warrick cursed. The young un-armed CSI was with the one the perps were looking for. Sanders never wore a gun, and Warrick wasn't even sure he knew how to use one. The two were up there, like living targets, waiting to get executed. Warrick felt like being caught right between a truck-load full of shit and a freight-train coming at him with full speed. Whatever move he made, he'd be putting someone at risk. “Can't leave you here.”

Nick struggled to free himself. “Someone's coming.” he said, the good hand moving in a pointing motion. “M'good.”

Warrick turned his head and looked. The dawn was about to break but there were flashlights advancing on them.

“Rick!” Nick coughed and wheezed. “Wha' if - get the boy out! ”

He looked back at the man, barely holding himself up by the elbow buried into the ground. Slightly slumped over he breathed with short, pained sounds. Eyes moistening up from the pain and despair. “Please!”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Warrick swore and moved away. He reached for the spare magazine and reloaded his gun, placing it by Nick's hand. “You don't ask questions if something fishy turns up, Nick. You shoot! I'll be back in five.”

Nick nodded.

Warrick rose to his feet, waiting for Nick to fall over at the lack of support. He stood there, ready to intervene if the man went down. But Nick stayed up, hunched over and trembling, but still sitting.

“Go!” he croaked and Warrick took one step back before he started running up the hill. A glance at the approaching group had him relax somewhat, it was the personnel from the Rehab Center. And jaded and cynical as he was, he just couldn't picture them as a peril.

 

 

He was out of breath when he arrived at Nick's truck. He saw Greg standing outside, pleading with the boy, yanking at the door handle. “You gotta open up kid, I'm Nick's friend, he told me to get you. He's hurt and can't come. Open the door!”

“What the fuck?” Warrick wheezed.

Greg turned, desperation making him tug a the door. “Won't let me in!”

Warrick pressed his palms to the side-window. “Listen up. Nick's badly hurt, he needs help. Like he helped you. Open the god-damned door.” Turning to Greg, he continued, “there's two more, armed. You need to get outta here!”

“I'm not leaving-,” Greg started indignantly.

“You have a gun on you? When did you last shoot one?”

Greg paled.

Warrick turned back to the boy who was curled up on the passenger seat, eyes wide with fear. “Okay, kiddo, don't believe I'm Nick's bud? Open the CD-rack to your left and I'll tell you all 'bout the horrible taste in music he's got. The first is Gary Allan, Tough All Over, chick music if there ever was. The second is Deep Purple, Purpendicular, the third's Reba McEntire, Room to Breathe. Do I really need to continue the sorry list?”

The boy's hands were shaking when he opened the rack. Pulling out the three first CDs, he looked attentively at the covers. Then he lifted his eyes and looked at Warrick.

“C'mon kid,” he groaned. He really didn't have time to negotiate right now.

The kid's hand went to his pant pocket and pulled out the keys. The doors unlocked with a dull click.

Warrick pulled the door open, reaching in and grabbing the comforter Nick always had, neatly folded up, on the back-seat. He stepped back to roll it up and place it under his arm. “Greg, get in and check if his spare-gun is in the glove-compartment.”

Greg climbed in, jerked the latch open and rummaged around. “Yup,” he handed it over. “But no extra ammo.”

“It's fine. Just hand me the bottled water he keeps in between the seats. There should be two of them, gimme one. Then you just fucking get outta here, don't stop for anybody. If someone tries to hitch a ride, you just push the pedal. Call Brass and tell him we need Medevac, tell him to get his ass here as soon as possible, because there's one barely glued and two armed fugitives on the loose. ”

Greg nodded and handed him the bottle.

Warrick stepped back and watched Greg start the truck and pull out.

He ran to the rim of the slope and the scene below him had the comforter and the bottled water fall to the ground. His mouth went dry and he fumbled when he drew his gun.

The merry Rehab gang had arrived. The skinny cook first in line, about thirty feet in front of the rest. She was running towards Nick, a shovel in her hands. With a grimace of pure pain, Nick pushed the gun further away from himself.

Nick tried to lift his arm defensively just as the shovel clipped the air and landed hard on him.


	15. Chapter 15

Warrick's mind refused to take in what he saw. The scene unfolding below him simply refused to be rationally processed. It played out in slow motion; the raised shovel, the hand coming up in the air, a startled sound and the swoosh of the shovel cutting the air before it landed with a sickening sound of metal against skin and bone. It was crystal clear in the rising sun and still so unreal that he was frozen in his place. Helplessly he stood there, watching Nick's head being bashed in by a crazy woman brandishing a shovel. It wasn't until the second hit, the shovel landing on Nick's ribcage, that he pulled the trigger of his gun, shooting above the woman's head as a warning. Someone hollered and he didn't understand it was himself until his throat started aching. It seemed he had no control whatsoever when he launched himself down the slope. His lungs hurt from the force he put upon them as he ran down the hillside, screaming all the way down.

He barely registered that the priest had thrown his arms around the woman's waist and was forcefully dragging her away. The shovel fell out of her hands and she staggered backwards.

“He was putting the gun away, Mar, putting it away!” Father Jeffries' voice was a mixture pf dread and disbelief.

Warrick slid the last feet down on his palms and knees, frenetically trying to get to the man thrown to the ground and lying still. He heard himself whimper when he reached out his hand to check for a pulse, straddling Nick as if to protect him with his own body if necessary. He didn't find the pulse point at first, there was too much blood that streamed, thick and warm, over the damp skin, making his fingers slip. His voice had gone hoarse and raw from cursing before he felt the palpitations against his fingertips.

He exhaled painfully when he felt the weak pulse against his fingertips. It was still there, fast and oddly uneven.

A woman appeared at his side and he raised the gun, training it at her. He recognized her as Gretchel Withers, the RN. “Get away from him!”

His hand was now clutching the bleeding gash behind Nick's ear. Pressing at it with all his might, and still blood trickled through his fingers.

She looked at Nick and turned back. “Malcolm, take the car. Get the red bag in the office and all the IV-bags you find in the storage. The red key is for the medicine cabinet, take all the epinephrine and dopamine you find. Go with him Anselmo, take the phone we confiscated off Joshua. Step on it.”

Warrick let the gun lower slightly. His voice was merely a garbled whisper when he spoke. “Don't touch him, you fucking murderers!”

“He's gonna bleed out if he doesn't get help, right now. I'm trained, I can help.“ She had sunken to her knees, despite the gun being held, point blank, to her face.

“You're not doing anything to him without my permission.” He felt the gun shiver in his hand; from withheld anger or panic, he had no idea. Everything seemed jumbled up in the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes on Nick's pale face. Knowing that one wrong move from the woman's side would have him pull the trigger, without reflection.

“Fair enough,” the woman spoke quietly. “How is his pulse, thready?”

Warrick let his fingers slide away. “Barely there,” he replied.

The woman's fingers found the spot and held on. Pressing lightly. “How long has he been bleeding before this last injury?” she asked.

“I don't now, I found him half out of it some fifteen minutes ago. It was not like he was ballroom dancing from the get go.”

“He's lost a lot of blood.”

Warrick glared at the woman. “You don't say?”

“No, no, no,” she suddenly whimpered, her widening eyes on Nick, shaking her head. “Not now!”

Warrick's eyes darted back to Nick; his Adam's-apple seemed to move jerkily in the growing light. Repeated convulsions ripped through his upper body.

“He can't throw up in this position, if he aspirates he -” her voice trailed off when Warrick moved instantly. He let the gun fall from his hand, ripped his west off and placed it behind Nicks neck. He didn't think, he just acted. Gripping his man's neck with his hand, fingers splaying out to give the best possible support. Holding his breath he lifted Nick's head, ever so slightly, tilting it to the side and onto the vest, while his free arm aided the shoulder into the right angle. Bile and liquid streamed from the corner of Nick's mouth and the convulsions stopped. Warrick exhaled, voice cracking when he spoke. “Might drown in his own vomit.”

“But if we move him and he has a spinal injury -”

“He might end up paraplegic. But he'll still have a chance to survive.” Warrick ended the sentence for her, meeting her startled gaze with his own desperate one. “That's enough for me.”

Warrick let his free hand grip the wrist of Nick's good hand. The pulse was still there, but thready and weak. The blood still ran, in a steady slow stream, down Nick's neck. The smell was sickeningly sweet. He folded back the soiled part of his vest, wiping Nick's mouth and chin clean; not wanting Nick to have to lie in his own vomit. His actions struck himself as mundane and unnecessary. Still, he simply had to. He didn't want his man to lie in dirt.

“Hand me the water, it's in the first aid kit,” he ordered, hunched over the man and totally concentrated on Nick's breathing. If it came to that, he'd breathe for him until the ambulance arrived. If it so took days.

The bluish bottle appeared and he ordered the nurse to pour some of it onto the neck of his lover. He couldn't stand the look of all that fresh blood. She had already gotten the message and was rinsing away the smeared, rusty colored thickness. Using the gauze she patted the skin dry, the gash appeared in all its ugliness, jagged and raw, blood trickling slower now. It was about two inches long; reaching from behind Nick's ear down to the side of his neck. Warrick knew he'd never get rid of the image.

“She missed the vein with a centimeter,” the nurse said. She folded some gauze and pressed it to the bleeding wound. “If she had nicked it, he'd be long gone by now.”

“So would she,” Warrick stated flatly.

Gretchel Withers, registered nurse, looked at him like he was the stone cold murderer. Not her friend and co-worker, but he, that was holding onto his bleeding lover, expecting the breaths to end at any instance.

“Who killed Jeremy?” she asked in an accusatory tone.

“I did.” Warrick admitted. “He'd shot Nicky once already, and was about to end it. I ended him and I don't regret it for one second. I'd do it again.”

“Mar, I mean Majorie, saw a man dead on the ground. Our friend!” The tone sounded bitter. “Wasn't there another way?”

With his eyes on Nick, he snapped. “Your friend had picked up a young kid and was about to perform fucking sick rituals on him, just to throw him in some dumpster when he was done. Nick got the kid out, I don't know how and your friend Jeremy took it on himself to retaliate. There was no other way. I didn't even stop to think about an other way. I had to save my man.”

The woman gasped. “You're lying. That's just not -.” She rose and turned her back on him.

“We have the boy, he can tell you all about it later.“ His eyes bore into her backside, seeing the shoulders slump. “I'm also an eyewitness to that woman trying to kill my man. You wanna try and whack me over the head too?”

The nurse turned back to him, her eyes flaring. “She was scared. Jeremy had done nothing to her and she sees him shot dead. Your partner seemed to reach for his gun and she did what she thought was right, in order to save us. Can you blame her?”

He felt guilt wash over him. Turning back to Nick he adjusted his grip on the gauze covering the wound. Had it all been because of the gun? The gun he had left by Nick's side? He swallowed hard, trying to regulate his breathing that was constantly hitching, like in soundless sobs. “You blame me?”

Gretchel let her eyes sink. “No,” she said quietly. “I'll get the comforter, he needs to be kept warm.”

Warrick looked at Nick's pale face. What scared him the most right now what that he hadn't moved, not at all. No involuntary spasms, no reflexive movement, no cramps, nothing at all since he'd turned Nick's head. Was that because of him? And where was the fucking ambulance? A person might die ten times over with the time it took for them to get here. Nick could die ten times over.

The dark lashes contrasted sharply against the white skin. Warrick hadn't even noticed day-break. The sun had climbed up behind the mountains; the heat just wasn't there yet. It was clear from Nick's cool skin. He felt it against his fingertips while holding Nick's neck steady. Each heart beat registering in the fingers he'd wrapped around Nick's wrist. The hand holding the neck steady and pressing the gauze to the wound was starting to feel numb. The rhythm of Nick's breathing registered automatically, he even counted the intakes or air, mentally noting the time before Nick exhaled. He didn't want to think it, but it seemed the breaths were more shallow and coming further apart. The heart beats picking up speed and losing regularity, and he knew why. The shallowness of the inhales added weight to the picture; Nick was going into hypovolemic shock. And he sat here, helpless. Why was it so easy to kill when saving a life was so hard?

“Nicky, baby, you need to pull through this.” His voice broke every time he let the possibilities sink in. His throat began to ache, a thickness in it that garbled his voice. “You're not fucking going anywhere, bro. You hearing me? I'm just not allowing that. You owe me twenty.”

 

The sound of a car approaching had him look up. There was a cacophony of voices, Gretchel's clearest of them as she handed out orders to take this and that and carry it down. He let his gaze wander over to the woman that had sunken to a heap, held together by her husband. He still felt like killing her. It wasn't that he was unable to comprehend her actions, he'd done pretty much the same himself. But the fact that she still sat there, held and rocked while weeping, angered him to no end. She was still with them, her husband was still able to hold her and tell her it would be all right. All he had was a man lying too still, a man whose breaths ran uneven and shallow. He was barely there any longer. And Warrick needed retaliation, needed some kind of justice. Question was only; for what or whom? He'd taken some downright stupid decisions by leaving Nick alone, a gun by his side. Decisions Nick was paying for at the moment. And if – he shook his head, realizing that Nick might be paying for it forever, even if he survived.

He only looked away when Gretchel knelt before him and obstructed the view.

“Move over,” she pushed at Warrick to indicate that he needed to get out of her way. He did as ordered, moving to sit by Nick's side, never losing his grip on the man's neck.

“I need his arm, have to push some fluids in him asap.” She was more or less talking to herself when she turned the hand to insert the IV in Nick's protruding vein at the elbow, with expertise. “Closer to the heart like this.” She fastened it with a gauze strip, taping it to its place.

“What he really needs is a central-line. But that, I don't have. Padre Anselmo, get over here and hold the bag!”

She turned to the counselor. “Cut the left leg, right up to his hip. You better cut the strap too and free some blood flow. Just five minutes, then tie him up again. And get me the BPMS, I have to use that on his arm to stop the bleeding. “ She turned to rummage in the cooler, picking up a vial and inserting a needle to fill a syringe.

“What you givin' him?” Warrick asked, not entirely sure that the nurse was acting in Nick's best interest yet.

She looked at him, lips pursed together. “Dopamine, and from this point on I don't have time to walk you through emergency medicine. You'll just have to trust me on this.”

Duly chastised, Warrick nodded. “Just keep him alive or -.”

Gretchel emptied the syringe into the bag Padre Anselmo was holding. “You threatening me?”

“No,” Warrick shook his head. “Beggin's more like it.”

But the nurse had already moved away. Scissors gleamed in the sun when she cut the sleeve and wrapped the cuff around the broken arm. Inflating it, she pressed the stethoscope hanging around her neck to the vein on Nick's arm. It seemed bluish and hard, ready to bring blood back to the heart, blood that was running out, just like the time. “You're in charge of this. In twenty minutes you need to deflate it and let some blood to his fingers or he's gonna lose them. Understand?”

Warrick looked at his clock and nodded. In the same instance he heard faint sirens coming their way. To his astonishment he saw drops of water fall down on Nick's cheek. Looking up to the cloudless sky, he felt the silent tears roll down his cheeks.

 

 

All of a sudden the place was swarming with people. The first to show up were two officers from the Henderson PD. One of them leaned in over Warrick's shoulder. “That Stokes?” he asked.

All he could do was nod, his fingers were still plastered around Nick's neck and pressing on the gauze. In twelve minutes he'd have to deflate the cuff.

“Jesus,” the cop breathed. “Looks like he was put through a shredder.”

Anger flared through Warrick, he wanted to deck the man. Swallowing hard he growled at him to get the paramedics instead of yapping. A hand gripped his shoulder. He looked to the side and recognized the tattered shoes.

“How is he?” Brass' voice sounded terse and drawn. Warrick had no time to reply since blue clad legs appeared before him and hands roamed over his man's body, assessing the injuries while and other pair of hands reached out to look for a pulse, pushing his own hands away. He heard Gretchel report in the background. 'Head-injury, hypovolemic shock, possible aspiration and suspected spinal injury', were the only words he was able to register before his mind shut the rest off.

“Get me the 0-neg, stat! And someone take the civilian away and check his arm!” the one holding a bulky neck-brace ordered.

Warrick looked up, wondering who they were talking about. The man before him looked stern and concentrated when he slid the neck-brace on Nick and secured it. “Breathing slow and irregular, possibility of aspiration, we need to intubate and hyperventilate him asap.”

Brass tugged at his shoulder. “Warrick, get away and let them work on him. Your arm is all scrubbed up, need to get it cleaned before you lose it to gangrene. Sanders, help me out here!”

“Greg?” He whipped his head to look at the CSI, when he felt a second set of hands gripping his other shoulder and he was pulled from his place, losing his grip on Nick. “Where's the kid?”

“On his way to Henderson with a female officer.” Greg grunted as he pulled Warrick backwards, away from the scene. “You never told me how bad it was!”

“It wasn't quite as bad when you left,” Warrick growled when he was unceremoniously dragged up the slope, his eyes never leaving the scene further down the slope. “Things got from bad to hellish in a snap.”

“Huh?” Brass asked. “When I talked to Greg I got the impression Nick was up and actually talking. I'da called the Medevac if I knew how bad he really was. The medics are on it now, trying to get 'em here asap.”

“The cook decided to give him a new parting,” Warrick huffed when he was pushed to the passenger seat of Brass' patrol car.

Brass bent enough to get at eye-level with him. “Care to spell that one out for me?”

“She obviously thought Nick was reaching for the gun and went off on him with a shovel. Damned lucky I didn't slug her on the spot.”

Brass rose and looked down the slope. “The skinny thing down there?”

Warrick glared. “The skinny thing hit hard enough to take Nick totally out of mission.”

“Never trust a woman with a weapon,” Brass gruffed.

“Don't let Sara hear you say that, “ Greg's voice carried over from the right. “He's over here, just don't mind if he chews you down, that's just Warrick.”

Warrick turned to find Greg coming toward the patrol car, with a young, female paramedic in tow.

Warrick growled in protest and Brass sneered a warning not to move at him. “Take a look at his arm,” he said in the paramedic's direction. “And if he starts bein' difficult, just dope him up. I gotta go down and check on Nick and the Medevac-situation.” He stopped by Greg's side when the paramedic smiled tentatively at Warrick and asked him how he was.

He heard Jim tell Greg to keep an eye on him and see to it he stayed in the car.

“What?” Warrick stuck his head out the car-door and nearly knocked the paramedic over. “Am I under arrest or something?”

Brass turned his head to look at him. “Consider it a psych eval.”

Warrick turned to the paramedic, frozen to her place, and tried to smile reassuringly at her. “He's just kiddin'. I'm really harmless.”

Greg snorted.

“You're not helping here, Sanders,” Warrick muttered. Offering his arm to the woman, he tried his best to look docile and in full control. “Just do what you have to do, coz' I need to get down there and check on my partner.”

“Partner? It's official? Thought that wasn't allowed in Nevada?” Greg asked with his back to him, looking down the slope. The young man's body obstructed the view efficiently and Warrick felt his jaw tense up.

A cuff was inflated on Warrick's arm and he hissed at the pressure. “That's what you call the one you're paired up with, Sanders.”

“Right.”

“Stop yappin' and tell me what is going on down there! Now! Ouch!” He glared at the paramedic as she inflated the cuff anew.

“Sir, I have to re-check, your blood-pressure is very high. 180 over 120.” She looked at him, forcing a smile to her quaking lips.

“That's what happens when your partner is hurt,” Greg said. “Your adrenaline spikes, upping your pulse and your BP. Classic signs of emotional trauma.”

“Enough with the medical mumbo-jumbo, Greg. Tell me what's going on!”

He felt a sharp prick on his upper arm and looked in surprise at a syringe being emptied into his muscle. “What the fuck you givin' me, woman?”

“Just something to calm you and your blood-pressure down, sir.” The paramedic looked ready to take her stuff and flee for her life. “I - I have to clean your arm, sir. The scratches are covered with sand. I'll just clean it up a bit and put on a temporary stocking for protection. You'll have to get proper treatment at a hospital.”

“Whatever,” Warrick growled and turned back to Greg. “What's the situation?”

“Don't mind him,” Greg turned to the young paramedic. “His bark is worse than his bite. “ He turned his eyes to Warrick. “They have him on the gurney, I think they're about to get him up and into the ambulance. He's bagged and there's a transfusion going on. Kinda hard to tell, there's a lot of people around him. I think they have it under control.”

Sweat broke out on Warrick's brow.

“This crime scene is totally compromised.” Greg continued, turning back to the scene below.

Warrick was totally jarred from the sentence. He found it callous beyond comprehension. Professional, yes. But considering it a crime scene was something he'd totally over-looked. He'd compromised it himself by moving the dead body, by not keeping an eye on the weapon the man had used to shoot Nick with. He'd forgotten to secure any kind of evidence at all. The shovel, where was the shovel? He'd managed to trample all over the scene, trying to get to Nick as fast as possible. Still, he didn't give a flying fuck about any of it. “Crime scene?” he cracked. “That's Nicky, bleeding out, down there.”

Greg turned to watch him through the dirty windshield, his eyes like dark islands. It wasn't until now Warrick realized how pale the level one looked. He was holding his arms crossed over his chest, the stance speaking about a psychical effort to hold it together. His lips were pressed together to a thin line. They barely moved when he said, “I know.”

“You shouldn't have come back here,“ Warrick pointed out.

“Had to,” Greg replied quietly.

Warrick looked away. Watching the paramedic rinse his arm with the sterilizing liquid, feeling it sting and that felt good. He should feel pain and suffer some kind of retaliation for the mistakes he'd made. He only wished Nick wouldn't be the one paying for them. Because that would be something he'd never forgive himself for.

 

Warrick stood by the patrol car, watching while the paramedics and officers tried to get the gurney up the hillside. Nick was covered in a blue quilt, the ER medic walking besides him, pressing the bag rhythmically, his fingertips steady on Nick's wrist. Every once in a while they'd all stop and the physician would open Nick's eyelid and check the pupil reaction. Warrick knew exactly what that meant: head injury and fear of possible aggravation thanks to the awkward trip up the hill. He had to swallow convulsively to stop the bile rising in his throat. Still, he was unable to look away. The scientist in him forced him to look at the evidence, scrutinize it and form theories based on what he was witnessing. It made him feel sick, but it held him together, focused on something else than the panic that lurked behind every breath he took. The fear jabbed at him, mocked him for his inadequacy and laughed at his helplessness.

It took its sweet time since they had to struggle to keep the gurney horizontal. He wanted to run down there and offer his help. The glare and growl of Jim Brass had him stay put and form fists in his pockets; the panic rising closer to the surface, clinching his jaw shut and making his ribcage ache.

Brass talked into the phone while keeping an eye on him.

“I don't give a rats-ass about a triple at Lake Mead. I keep telling you we have an officer down and it's looking bad. Get the chopper over here.” He paused, face turning grim. “Twenty minutes? You gotta be kidding me? What you carrying? Nitroglycerin?” He growled. “You better write this down. We'll move him out by car. The moment Medevac is free you call me and set route on Boulder. I'll let you know where to land if necessary. Go out and save some puppies and I'll have your ass on the line.”

He shut the phone.

“All three Medevacs are busy. Two up state and the on-call one is at Lake Mead, a chain-collision. We're gonna have to transport him with the rig. The chopper will be on stand-by after they've rescued the Lake Mead victims, and if necessary they're gonna have to land on the Highway to pick him up.”

Warrick was afraid to talk by now. A strange kind of shiver had started in the pit of his stomach. His legs felt rubbery and weak. He watched the slow progression and when the gurney was on flat land, he turned to his truck, ready to follow. The glimpse of Nick on the stretcher was enough to make his teeth clatter.

“Where the hell you think you're going, Brown?” Brass asked.

Warrick turned around in astonishment. Did Brass really think he'd stay behind and collect evidence?

“Get your ass into the backseat of the patrol car. I'll do the drivin'. Sanders! See to it that Brown buckles up. He looks like shit.”

“Me?” Greg asked hesitantly. “The dude's armed and looking about to use it.”

If he hadn't known better he'd smacked Greg for that. But the drawn face and the sloped shoulders talked loud and clear about how much Greg tried to keep everything at an arms length. Not wanting to face the truth - making a joke out of everything. Warrick sighed and walked over to the car. “No need to keep up the act, Greg.”

Greg waited for him to climb in and shut the door on him. Then he seated himself in the front-seat and turned to fixate Warrick. “Yeah, there is. If you start thinking about -,” he trailed off and turned his back on Warrick. ”Act's all I have right now.”

Warrick looked down at his hands, the right one still soiled with blood. The paramedic had forgotten all about it, just like he had. The dried blood made creases on his skin when he made a fist. It looked unreal somehow, like it was a prop in a bad movie. He heard Brass close the door and start the engine. Blue-lights and alarm turned on when he followed the rig.

Warrick couldn't stop fisting his hand; watching the blood, transfixed.


	16. Chapter 16

Brass kept his head-set on, keeping in contact with the driver of the rig in front of them. Warrick had already asked how Nick was, twelve times, during the 20 minutes they'd been en route. He didn't get an answer and kept opening and closing his fist, watching the dried blood. The logical part of his brain told him that he was simply trying to mimic Nick's heart beat and that it was nothing but magical thinking; a very childish way to cope. His jaw ached from the tension when fear laughed at logic and drove tears to his eyes. He blinked away the tears and kept opening and closing his fist, unable to stop.

The moment they were out of radio shadow his cell started ringing, he knew it wouldn't be Nick so he didn't give a damn about it. He was pulled out of his daze when Brass slowed down and Greg unbuckled when they stopped, parked diagonally over the highway.

“Why'd they stopped? Something happen?” He asked, the ache in his chest making his words seem slurred and far away. His mind wasn't functioning the way it should, he was sluggish and slow. He tried to get out of the car to follow Brass, but his fingers felt thick and useless when he pressed them to the side window. They had locked the doors on him. “Lemme the fuck out! I just wanna see him.”

Greg turned to him, gripping his wrist hard. “It's the MEDEVAC that's landed, they're moving him to get him to Desert Palm faster. You need to calm down.”

Warrick tried to get a look at the rig, but Brass' back was in the way. Only thing he was able to see was a gurney being pulled out of the ambulance and the three blue-clad and one green-clad figure walking away with it.

The grip on his wrist tightened momentarily, holding on so hard he thought his bones would pop. The grip so different from Nick's it almost stopped his heart. Then Brass turned up by the open door of the driver's side, leaning heavily on the car.

“He's still with us, but the pressure on his brain is starting to worry them too, not to talk about the PVC's he started to throw when they ran out of blood on the rig. They haven't been able to stop the blood loss yet, they're afraid he'll lose his leg if they keep it tied up. And since so much foreign blood has run through him the risk for immunological complications is extremely high. They need MEDEVAC's EATSET to auto-transfuse him. He has internal bleeding they haven't been able to locate and stop.” Brass sounded exhausted.

Warrick felt the all too familiar bile rise in his throat. His fingers bent against the glass and the hard grip on his wrist loosened.

Greg mumbled something to Brass and the Captain bent stiffly to take a look at Warrick through the open door. “Geez, Brown, you about to faint? Sanders, get some water into him before he keels over. ”

A water bottle was forced into his shivering hand, and he drank to get the dryness of his throat quelled. He coughed it out through his nose, gasping for air as the water spurt from his nostrils.”I'm fine,” he got out. “Just fine.”

“Right,” Brass snorted and slid in to buckle up. “We're gonna have to take it slower now,” he added while shutting the door and putting the car in drive.

Warrick watched the speedometer climb up to a 100 MPH and resting there. Greg winced.

Feeling like a wrung-out rag, Warrick returned to opening and closing his soiled fist.

 

He was all stiff and achy when they finally got out of the car outside the ER entrance, Catherine standing there, waiting. His knees were jittery and he gratefully leaned onto Catherine while she steered him inside. He loathed himself for his weakness. Nick would laugh his ass off hearing the tale of Warrick Brown, dragged into the ER by a woman half his size.

Grissom and Sara met up with them and the admittance desk, both full of questions. They all remained unanswered when he simply slid down onto a plastic chair, listening to Greg filling the others in. He didn't even hear the nurse call his name, Catherine was forced to yank him off the chair and into the examination room, where a nurse plucked the stones and sand grains from his scraped arm, while the ceiling spun around and around. He didn't utter a word despite the irritatingly chatty nurse. He felt numb, totally numb and somehow that felt even worse than the fear from before. The sense of utter helplessness reminded him too much of what he'd fought so long to forget. Nick on the video-screen, brandishing a gun just before the screen went black.. Nick lying in the coffin, being covered with dirt in hopes of getting him out in one piece. And the image of a gaping, blood-trickling wound on the neck he loved to kiss and nibble, haunted him without mercy. All he had had was hope, and that was never enough for him.

“Sir, I'm gonna give you something to help you calm down. That all right with you?” the nurse asked politely.

Warrick merely nodded, most all of he wanted to be drugged and not woken up until Nick was fine enough to shake him awake, whining about how late they were.

 

 

It had been hours and there was no news.

The mother hen in Catherine was set in full force. She brought him coffee and sandwiches that tasted like sand and sawdust. Trying to prod him to talk, she sat by his side while Grissom walked the aisle and Greg drank cup after cup of the rancid coffee served in cheap Styrofoam cups. Sara at his side, lips pursed together to a thin line. She kept warning Greg not to overdo the caffeine-intake while refilling her own cup over and over again.

The nurses at the admission's desk claimed they knew nothing new and told him to take a seat every time he walked up to the desk, pleading for information. He made them check that he, Warrick Brown, was the main contact in emergencies and promise solemnly that he'd be the first to know about any change in Nicholas Stokes' condition. The third time, in half an hour that he made the same itinerary, had made Catherine push him down on the plastic seat, another cup of coffee being forced into his hand while she and Grissom exchanged concerned looks.

He vaguely remembered that someone had told him he was good in a crisis. Oh, he was a splendid shoulder to lean on, as long as the crisis didn't involve Nick.

And here he sat, shaky and jittery with horrid nerve-wrecking muzak constantly playing in the background. It barely registered, it was just there like an irritating noise. Until an old Aerosmith hit, one that he particularly hated, penetrated the fog residing in his head.

He bowed his head, resting it in his hands. He hated that song, it had driven him bonkers when it played constantly, on every station, for six months. He still hated it, with a vengeance; but it would forever be tied to memories of Nick:

It had been a slow night at the lab, Nick had been around, maybe a month? They slipped out to shoot some hoops during their break. The night had been warm and the only light was the yellowish streetlights from the parking lot. “I don't wanna miss a thing” was playing over and over, from an open window on the ground floor. Loud and clear in the middle of the night.

Nick dribbled around him, grinning every time he scored, grating Warrick's nerves further. At last he couldn't take the sugary melody any longer and stopped, looking to the open window, scowling a curse. Nick had asked what was up and Warrick had said he was ready to shoot the car-stereo out each time that fucking piece was played, and now it was pestering him on his breaks too? Nick confessed to liking both the flick and the song, making Warrick roll his eyes and groan. Nick laughed and told him that he knew the secretary had just broken up with her boyfriend and needed to be given a break. Warrick had been baffled when he learned that Nick actually had cared enough to ask the young woman. It was the first time he'd become aware of how much Nick noticed about the people around him, how much he cared. He hadn't expected that from the young Texan. Truth be told, he'd expected a spoiled brat on the fast lane to success. He'd stopped, baffled, only to have the basket-ball flicked out of his hands. When the sugary tune started anew Nick began to sing along, grinning and circling him tantalizingly, dribbling the ball just out of reach. He was skinny and fast, escaping every time Warrick got close. His voice picked up volume and the grin widened at the sight of Warrick's glare. His drawl got more and more pronounced along the line; r's rolling and vowels lengthening. With the last accord Nick threw the ball in a perfect curve, scoring yet again.

And Warrick had felt it for the first time. The thing that would grow and take over, however much he had been fighting it. The bright grin, the dimples and the smooth moves stirred something deep inside of him. The man was vibrant and totally unaware of how fucking sexy he was. The intricate dance with the ball, like a ballet over the still hot asphalt, the ducking of the head, a self-conscious gesture that seemed so misplaced at times. And the obvious depth in the brown eyes as they teased him, had unexpectedly taken his breath away.

He had been saved by Grissom opening the door and beckoning them inside. He swiped the ball from Nick, feeling the body-heat radiate from the shorter man. They'd high fived and walked inside. Nick wiping his nose in embarrassment and looking up at him from under long lashes. Cheeks reddening slightly. Warrick remembered trying not to overtly stare at Nick's ass.

The song continued playing when he shut the door behind them.

He was still able to recall Nick's voice like it were yesterday. He could still recall the movements of the body, the vibrancy that had caught his attention.

Had he ended that now? Had the impromptu heroic act of supposedly saving Nick from drowning in his own vomit been purely selfish? Did he even stop for a moment to consider other solutions? Who the fuck was he to be pissed at Nick for having taken the risks he had, to save a boy?

He rose, hands forming fists and he tucked them into his pockets as he walked out. Out from the stifling smell of sterilizing liquids, out from the harsh lights. Away from memories of other times he'd been sitting in the ER, waiting for news. He burst out through the doors, feeling his eyes moist up; he had to bury his nails into the heel of his hand to keep the facade of cool.

Then he started pacing the square cement-tiles on the pathway outside the ER's entry.

 

 

He only stopped when Catherine called out his name from the door. She was walking up to him, a strange expression on her face.

“Nick?” he asked, voice trembling in a ridiculous manner.

“No news yet, but they say we should know in half-an-hour.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I know it's bad but, Warrick, you're falling apart here.”

He stared at her.

“We don't know anything yet. For all we know he's still hanging in there, they would have told us otherwise. What is it you're not telling me, Warrick? ” She creased her brow.

He looked away, how would he even find words to excuse what he'd done? It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. But now?

“Because I know what his living will says, Catherine. I signed the goddamned document.”

“I don't get it?” Her hand squeezed his arm harder.

“It says that in case he's being forced to live hooked up to machines, I'm supposed to let them pull the plug. It sounded like the right thing to do back then. But now? I'm not gonna be able to do what I promised him, Cath. I just won't be able to.” He blurted it out, words falling off his lips rapidly and sounding harsh.

Catherine was silent at his side. And he felt the damned tears roll down his cheeks all over. “I moved his head, Cath. I moved his fucking head! He was about to lose his lunch while on his back, totally out of it and I just moved him. Laid him on his side not to have him aspirate and choke. He was whacked over the head with a shovel, we didn't - we don't know if he has spinal injuries. Get it now?” He looked at her from the side, the exhaustion having him shiver as if he were freezing in the warm evening sun.

Catherine gripped his chin, turning it towards her. She dried his tears off with the back of her hand. “Warrick, you saved his life. I wouldn't have expected anything else of you in that situation. Neither would Nick. You really think he'd blame you for not letting him die out there? That's just crazy Warrick, and you know it.”

“How am I supposed to tell his folks this? Nick made me promise not to phone and rat if something happened to him. Not if it wasn't definite. But I know them, they'd wanna know.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Catherine crooned. “You're jumping to conclusions, making scenarios we have no indication of. That's not like you.”

“This particular scenario is very viable, thanks to me.” He blinked rapidly. “Shit, Catherine, what the fuck did I do?”

“You saved Nick, you really think anybody will fault you for that?” She looked at him, a small smile curving her lips. “But I had no idea about the rest. The pieces are starting to fall together perfectly now. I suspected it for some time, I know you've always been close but I suspected there was something much deeper. The thing I still don't get is Nick and how he's changed. At times he seems so happy, then it's like he falls into an abyss. Like with this case. It's you that's keeping him together, isn't that so? It's thanks to the two of you looking out for each other he's come through everything without falling apart.” She smiled. “Rick, that's just – that's love.”

He sighed deeply, looking at the woman and answering her knowing smile. Something's where just not concealable, however much they've tried. And he was perfectly fine with Catherine knowing. Who knew and who didn't seem like a problem right now, the importance of keeping it under cover was really juvenile. Who the hell did they think they'd be able to con?

“Greg said something in the car on our way to the scene. Survivor's guilt. Nick feels that since he was saved, he needs to save everybody else. Like some cosmic fate that's been laid on his shoulders, and he seems unable to shake it. Does that even make sense?”

Catherine nodded. “It's common for sole survivors of disasters, and knowing Nick, yeah, it makes perfect sense.”

Warrick looked to the sky, the sun was sinking and a cool breeze swept over his face. “I still don't get it, why put that weight on yourself?” Warrick shook his head. “He can't save everybody, it's not like he can predict what's gonna happen and stop it. There's always gonna be victims, always. It's not his damned fault. All he can do is his best, and that's damned good if you ask me. Why is he second guessing and doubting himself half the time?”

“And what are you doing right now?” Catherine smiled sadly.

They both jumped when Greg burst through the automatic doors. Fidgety from the amount of caffeine coursing through his system. “The doc wants to talk to you, Warrick! Nick's out of surgery.”

“I'm gonna be right there with you, Warrick.” Catherine promised, pushing him onwards with a hand on his shoulder.

Warrick hoped she couldn't tell how bad his legs were shaking and if she did, he prayed she'd never tell Nick.

 

 

Grissom did all the talking, prodding for more information and facts.

The only thing Warrick managed to get out was that the information could safely be divulged to the small group of CSIs standing there. Like a patrol on a recognition task, they gathered up around the physician. All of them tense and eyes trained on the small woman before them. She seemed used to this particular scene, maybe not to the amount of onlookers, but certainly with the fragile state of mind they all seemed to dwell in.

The lump in his throat was too big for him to utter a single word when it was made clear that Nick probably would be all right, eventually. That he'd sustained the surgery remarkably well, thanks to his excellent physical condition.

Warrick exhaled and Catherine gripped his arm.

Nick had a hair-line fracture in his skull and had suffered a minor subdural hemorrhage that had not inflicted any injury on the actual brain-tissue. Probably because he already was hypovolemic when the trauma was inflicted. The neurosurgeon had removed the clotted blood and there was a shunt to ensure that the swelling in his brain would be manageable through medication. And no spinal cord injury was detected on the CT. PTA would certainly occur, but the doctor was unable to predict the extension. He'd have to be neurologically checked when fully conscious and responsive to establish the long-term prognosis. He reacted to pain stimuli and light adequately at this point of recovery and that would indicate that the injuries were minor and hopefully reversible..

At this point, Warrick felt rather light headed and the physician looked pointedly at him, indicating the chairs. He sank thankfully, and totally embarrassed, to one of them. Greg slumping down beside him, a visible tremor in the hands he rested on his knees.

 

Grissom fired off questions about the nature of the trauma. The physician said it was assumed that he'd managed to shield himself with his right arm, because that one was a story all of it's own. His arm had been set, piece by piece. A micro-surgeon had fixed his veins and he'd gotten a rabies-shot since bites on the arm clearly were canine.

Warrick's head shot up in surprise. Greg mumbled something and Sara laid a calming hand on the young CSI's shoulder.

 

The bullet had been dug out of his leg and the muscles stitched up. The blood loss had been due to multiple cracked ribs, causing enough damage to assure internal bleeding. His lungs looked clear but he was on massive amounts of antibiotics to counteract any possible infection. He wouldn't be coherent for a while and the doctor advised them to go home and rest up. She had his next of kin's phone number and would be in contact if anything out of the ordinary occurred.

Grissom pointed out that his next of kin were all in Texas and that she should contact him, being Nick's supervisor, in case of a rapid change in his condition.

The physician looked perturbed and checked the chart. Then she reported that Nicholas Stokes' emergency contact was marked as Warrick Brown, resident in Vegas.

All eyes fell on him and he smiled like a loon, a grin from somewhere between embarrassment and relief, when he replied that it was correct. He should be informed about anything concerning Nicholas Stokes.

Both Sara and Grissom's eyebrows made questioning arcs, but neither made any remarks. Warrick realized they'd more or less been outed. And he didn't give a damn, not even about the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

 

 

 

They all looked though the glass at the man inside, just needing to assure themselves. Nick was still hooked up to machines and a bulky oxygen mask was covering his face. It wasn't likely he'd wake up for another twenty-four hours or so. The rest slowly dropped off, one after the other but Catherine remained by his side. When a nurse entered the room and checked the BP and administered some medication, Catherine waited by the door for her to exit. He heard them have a low conversation and the nurse finally nodded.

“It's all right to go in and sit with him, Warrick.” Catherine nudged his shoulder. “I'll wait and take you home later. The Henderson PD left your SUV at Nick's, the nurses station has the keys and we have to sign for them.”

He just nodded his understanding and rose to follow Cath inside. “You gonna be fine?” she asked concerned.

“Yeah,” he assured. His eyes trained on Nick. “Just wanna see my - bro.”

Warrick felt as if he functioned on auto-pilot by now. In three steps he was by his man's bedside and pulled the chair at the end of the bed along with him. Taking in the sight he rested on foot for a while, just looking. Then he sat down and gripped Nick's wrist, careful not to touch the IV. The sensation of the warm skin had his heart take a jolt, Nick had been so cold at the scene. The memory of the damp, cool skin in the morning sun had a shiver run through him. How close had it been this time? He really didn't want to know, he had enough nightmares as was. Looking at the still pale face, the scratches on the cheeks and chin, the long white pad of gauze taped to his neck, he had to swallow. The dark lashes rested calmly against the cheeks, a more peaceful expression on his face than the one Warrick had been remembering so vividly. He had no words at the moment, just an immense sense of lightness bubbling through him. Resting his hand on the top of Nick's shaved head, moving his thumb over the soft skin, he simply mumbled his lover's name in a manifestation of gratitude. What else was there to say? He rested his head on the shoulder and breathed his man in through deep inhales. Nick looked like Frankenstein's monster; the thought hit him hard and he chuckled, close to tears.

 

He didn't know how long he sat there, night fell and a new morning arrived and Nick was still out of it. Catherine had gone home and returned, asking if he wasn't ready to go home and get some rest before she had to leave all over. He hadn't felt ready, not by a long shot. Despite the ache in his body he refused to go anywhere and gulped down sandwich after sandwich until he was ready to throw up the stake read and lukewarm coffee he went to get from the vending machine, until he ran out of coins. Visitors arrived, stayed for a while at the window facing Nick's room and then left just as quietly as they'd arrived. They'd all tell him to go home and rest, offered to stay and keep watch. He'd tell them no, that he needed to do this for his bro. Which was a blatant lie, he needed to do it for himself.

Catherine and Grissom returned to pull rank on him, leaving him to stare blankly at them. At last Catherine simply pulled him off the chair and drove him home to Nick's place. At that point he was too wiped out to put up a fight. He just fell into a dreamless, drug induced sleep, head on Nick's pillow, breathing him in. His last coherent thought was that Grams was probably still laughing her head off at him and his proud black ass. He was really getting it smacked for believing he was the cool, though one, always in control. There was very little left of that illusion.

 

 

Light tickled his eyelids, but he was unable to turn his head away from it, His body was feeling sluggish and uncooperative. Heavy in a peculiar manner. The odd sounds that penetrated his foggy mind made no sense at all. There was a constant beeping sound, as if Warrick had forgotten to turn off the alarm, or it was malfunctioning? Unable to open his eyes he reached out for the man, trying to nudge him awake. His mouth was dry as sandpaper when he said “R-rick?”

There was a sound of scraping on the floor and a hand, not Rick's, closed around his wrist.

His eyes flew open and he had to shut them immediately as a bolt of light exploded inside his head, sending reverberation throughout his body, a surge of red-hot pain following. He tried to free his hand and shield his eyes with it, but the grip on his wrist was steadfast.

“Nick, it's me, Gil. I've called on the doctor, she'll come and check you out.”

Through the waves of pain, the spoken words registered, scratchy and weak like on an old tape that had been erased and taped over once too may. Doctor? He tried to move, failing miserably. His mind seemed totally blank at the moment. If there was a need for a doctor they must have been in a car-accident or something? He had no clues whatsoever.

 

“Where's Rick? He okay?” His voice didn't obey him at all, the words where slurred groans instead of intelligible sounds and he didn't dare open his eyes and face that darned light. It was too bright and too sharp and it reminded him of – oh shit! He groaned at his right arm that felt oddly heavy, when he tried to lift it and check if there was glass surrounding him. If he was back in the coffin, then where was Rick? He had been there with him all the way to the hospital, hadn't he? He remembered the soothing voice, and the hands holding onto him; the steady link to whatever little sanity he had left. Struggling to free his hand, he winced at the pain that every tentative move caused, but damned if he cared. He needed to know where Rick was, was he okay? This time he actually managed to pronounce Warrick's name without it sounding like a hog's grunt.

A hand on his chest held him down. “It's all right, Nicky. You're at Desert Palm. Catherine sent Warrick home because he was rather emotionally distressed. I'll call him when the Doctor checks you out and ask him to get here. He is fine and you're safe, Nick. Everybody is fine, no need to worry.”

He felt utterly confused. He had vivid recollections of the box, but wasn't that a long time ago? It seemed unreal that he was in a hospital. Hadn't he been at work just a while ago? What was going on?

Swallowing he tried to find his voice, wetting his lips with the the tip of his tongue. “Did I mess up?” Geez, now he sounded pitiful.

“Huh? No Nick, you didn't. You intervened and suffered some injuries. No need to try and remember, the memories will come back eventually. Just stay still and rest.”

Grissom's voice sounded strange, strained in an odd manner. That's when he knew he'd messed up big time and his supervisor was just avoiding to tell him the truth. He pressed his eyes tightly shut, moving his head to the side and prayed he hadn't hurt anyone. He'd be able to face anything but that, accidentally getting someone killed was something that had been bothering him for a while. The line between right and wrong had gotten so blurred at times. Had he stepped over it this time?

He heard a door opening and he felt Grissom move slightly. “He's awake, but the lights seem to bother him.”

“That's understandable,” a voice he didn't recognize spoke quietly.

Grissom's hand vanished and a new, thinner one, took its place. “I'm doctor Mi Yeon Lee.“

“Nicholas Stokes,” he forwarded, turning his head to the voice and having to clear his throat anew, as the tongue seemed glued to his palate.

A straw was placed between his lips and he drank gratefully. After the second sip the straw was pulled away. He tried to smile in gratitude for whatever little moisture he got, but was uncertain if he had managed to get the notion across.

“Do you know where you are?” the voice gently prodded.

“Desert Palm,” he repeated. Eternally grateful for Grissom's earlier spilling of the beans. At least he didn't come off like a complete goof.

Grissom cleared his voice. “Actually, I divulged that information earlier.”

“I understand,” the female sounded a tad amused. “Good job remembering, Nicholas.”

That sounded like his Mom, pissed at him for some reason. “It's Nick,” he said. “Just Nick.”

“All right, Nick. I had the pleasure to attend to you when you were brought in. You are doing remarkably well.” The hand let go of the grip around his wrist and rested on top of it. “Is the light bothering you?”

He nodded and groaned at the emerging tick under his left eye. The gear-box had obviously fried up and he was stuck; nothing, absolutely nothing seemed to work as it used to.

“Sir? Would you dim it? It's the round regulator to the left by the door.”

“Of course. I have to step out and make some phone-calls. Can I talk to you later?”

“I'll report to his next of kin before I can answer any questions, is that all right with you?”

The door was shut and he felt the waft of air as the physician turned back to him. “Nick? On a scale from 1 to 10, how much pain are you in?”

He tried to actually assess the pain he felt and where he felt it, but the throbbing in his head was efficiently hindering him from that.

“Head about to explode,” he croaked.

“Can you try and open your eyes for me? The light is dimmed. I've administered some pain medication to your IV, you should start to feel the effect now.”

He cracked his left eye open to a slit. There was no bolt of pain, but a grayish fog. He blinked and opened both. The focus was totally off, everything seemed skewed and distorted in the mist. Blinking again he found that the moist helped clear his vision. He moved his eyes in the direction of the voice.

An Asian woman was smiling at him. Her green outfit restful for the eyes. A stethoscope hung partly over the name-tag. But he was able to read it and assure himself he had heard right.

“Beautiful name, Ma'am, ” he cracked. “Japanese?”

“Korean,” she replied and her smile widened. “You're doing very well, Nick. Now all you need to do is rest.”

“Thank you,” he tried to smile but suspected it came off more like a grotesque grimace. His face felt kind of alien to him, much like the rest of his body.

“I'll phone your partner and tell him you are awake.”

“Warrick,” he mumbled drowsily. “Damn, he's so gonna have my ass for this.”

The doctor chuckled softly. “Yes, Warrick. Is it all right for your supervisor to re-enter?”

He nodded and closed his eyes, feeling his eyelids growing heavy. The headache had lessened, but someone had placed lead on his eyelids instead.

 

 

The next thing he knew was Warrick leaning over him. Strong hands planted on each side of his head. He instinctively extended his hand and grabbed the strong wrist. The sensation of his man's warm skin so reassuring and real. Warrick crooned his name and green eyes locked with his.

His own filled with tears.


	17. Chapter 17

The tears in his lover's eyes always did him in. Damn the man to get to him like that. The warm fingers strong around his wrist, holding on. He trailed his thumb along the cheekbone, gathering up some tears. The relief so evident in Nick's eyes that Warrick didn't even care that their girly moment was close to public.

Nick swallowed and cleared his throat. “You ok?”

Warrick just grinned reassuringly in reply. Never moving his eyes away from Nick's.

“What's with the arm?”

Trust CSI 3, Nicholas Stokes to note the ridiculous stocking over his underarm. “Just some scratches. Would you ease up already? Not like I took a fucking shovel to my head.”

Nick's eyes widened in surprise.”Huh?”

Warrick smiled, shaking his head. “Don't remember, do you? Just as good coz' I'm telling you, I have an entire new set of nightmares. I'd kiss you, Stokes, but Sara's waiting outside, spying through the glass.“

Nick turned his head to look through the window. Letting go off Warrick's arm, he made a small wave in their colleague's direction.

The door opened and Sara stepped in, taking care to walk with quiet steps. “Hey Nick, just wanted to see you.”

“Sar',” Nick smiled, ever the gentleman. “Ev'rybody fine at the lab?”

Sara nodded and reached out a hand to touch Nick's shoulder. Like if she wanted to make sure that he was real. “Yeah, they all send their best. Talked to Archie on the phone earlier. Said he was coming to visit today but I told him he'd better wait a couple of days.”

“Thanks Sara. Tell 'em I said hi.” Nick smiled, his eyelids seeming to get heavier by the minute. Warrick smiled at the stubborn streak in his man, the blessing and the curse of Nick Stokes.

“I will.” She straightened her back. “Rest up, you look beat, Nick. I'll see you later.” She smiled and nodded in Warrick's direction before she stepped out and the door shut behind her with a soft sigh.

Nick's closed his eyes, hand moving to curl his fingers around the warm skin of Warrick's wrist.

Warrick smiled at the gesture, staying as still as possible and just watching. He wanted to touch, but he was afraid of hurting his man. Watching was all he'd be able to allow himself for a long time coming.

“The kid, Rick. What about the kid?” Nick asked out of the blue.

Warrick turned and gripped the chair, dragging it to the bedside. He sat down and leaned in over Nick not to have the man lose his grip on the wrist.

“You remember?”

Nick's eyes opened slightly, pupils blown from the medication, the voice low when he forced himself to speak, despite the evident tiredness. “I know there was a kid in trouble.” He tilted his head to look at Warrick. The creases on Nick's brow indicating that the concern was acute.

“Social Services have him. He's physically just fine, the rest will be sorted out. Shouldn't you be sleepin'?”

“I have this feelin' I messed up.” The creases deepened further.”What I do this time?”

“Don't cha worry about that. As soon as you're back on your feet I'll read you the riot act, loud and clear.” Warrick narrowed his eyes, the grin he tried to suppress tugging at the corners of his lips. “Remember the case with the dumped kids?”

“Yeah,” Nick nodded after a while.

“You kinda cracked that one wide open.” Warrick laid his free hand on the calmly rising and falling chest. “Man, you've been out for two days and day-shift is out looking at the crime scene. I wasn't there when most of it happened. I found you on the slope when Jeremy was about to off you and the boy was already in your car. You had me go tell Greg to take the boy out of there, remember?”

“No.” Nick pouted.

“Figures. Well the case is solved so don't worry about that. The punks are behind bars. PD choppers picked up Jared Pintillo. He was walking in the desert, totally lost. He was happy to rat Lemarr and the J-man out for a lesser sentence. Lemarr was smart enough to follow the road to the highway, where he was promptly picked up by the Highway Patrol. After having tried to hi-jack a car. They're both in for some serious time at County's Correctional.”

“You think we'll ever know why?” The voice was barely more than a whisper.

Warrick moved his hand to hold on to Nick's wrist when he noticed his lover's strength fading and the fingers losing their grip. He put his palm on Nick's, fingers closing his own loosely around the soft skin, thumb caressing the pulse-point. The way he knew Nick wanted to be held when needing to be grounded. “You really need to know?”

Nick said nothing but Warrick knew perfectly well that Nick didn't just want to know, he wanted to understand. To make some kind of sense of the madness. They were both much more jaded than only a couple of years ago, but Nick had always had the itching to know the whys in order to try to understand. Grissom had been hard on him because of it at times, and Nick had tried to change and not care. But he never succeeded. The why was an important factor in finding out the how. Sometimes Nick still struggled with it, like now.

He wasn't answering and Warrick let it drop, thinking Nick was falling asleep.

Then he suddenly said, “Thanks for saving my ass.”

“Shut up, man!” he shook his head as it all came rolling back, the way he had moved Nick's head, fully aware what it might bring along. How he had counted the heartbeats, listened to the shallow breathing and felt the coldness of the skin. “I'm tired of your yappin', start baggin' some serious z's!”

“Hate you too, Rick and I've completely forgotten I owe you twenty.” A small smile tugged at the chapped lips.

“Don't cha worry 'bout that, honey bun,” Warrick crooned mockingly. “I'll see to it there's plenty o' times to thoroughly remind you.”

Nick let out a snort of laughter and Warrick held on to the hand until Nick fell asleep. Then he settled to read the newspaper he'd picked up. Right now he had nowhere to go, except sit right here and wait for his man to mend.

 

 

It had been seven days, the last three of tests, interrogations, hearings and adamant refusals to talk to the press. And he was all wiped out from having a two-day battle, about being signed out, with the sweet Dr. Lee, that hadn't budged until today. The thing about it was that she had said she'd call Warrick and check that Nick wouldn't be alone for the first days at home. And Warrick was working, dammit. If the man thought he was able to pull off a credible poker-face, now was the time to do it. He'd better be lying though his teeth right now and get him outta here. Or he'd have to sneak out in his dressing gown and hitch-hike home. If he didn't get some decent food, other than the sneaked in bits, he'd have to resort to actual begging.

And it started to look bad, the discussion had been before lunch, and it was late in the afternoon already. He'd be forced to sing the release papers and sneak out in a tattered robe; he was desperate enough to take drastic measures. Then he'd read his man the act for not bringing him clothes. It was like Warrick actually expected this from him, which led him to believe that Warrick and Dr. Lee were in cahoots. The man probably had her wrapped around his finger, thanks to flaunting his chest and flirting.

“I'm freakin' gettin' you for this, bro,” he muttered to himself when he slid down from his bed to make the trip to the bathroom and freshen up. He was walking just fine, sure the leg ached at times but he was handling it, dammit. He flicked the lights on and groaned at the sight of his face. The scrapes and cuts on his cheek made him look like he'd been indulging in some serious cat-fight in an alley. And he was sure the soap he'd been handed was retaliation. It was flowery and smelling like lilies, any of his nieces would have loved it. It got him nauseated. He wouldn't put it past Warrick to have bought it just so he could drop taunting jibes about cuteness. He was sure it wasn't the hospital's regular stock.

Then he groaned at his own crankiness.

“Yo, man!” A shadow at the door showed Warrick standing there, a sports bag in his hand.

“My hero,” Nick grinned, truly elated. “What song and dance did you pull to get me officially released?”

“I'm on paid nursing-suspension, man.” Warrick smirked and let the bag fall to the floor. “Need help dressing?”

Nick glared. “No. And I thought that ended yesterday, when they cleared you from the shooting? I'm so sorry I got you into this mess to begin with. You shouldn't be stuck with tidying up my freakin' messes.”

Warrick leaned up against the door frame and grinned. “Heard of guilt?”

“Huh?” Nick sat down on the toilet seat and arched an eyebrow while motioning for Warrick to kick the sports bag his way.

“The high and mighty at the department are excusing themselves to anyone that wants to listen since some reporter got wind of how close to messing up the investigation and letting the Folie-a-Trois killers get away. Thanks to restricting OT, while they had some private party at the Sphere, blowing away tens of thousands. That's why the budget was strained.” Warrick chuckled. “Ecklie didn't even blink when he extended my suspension for a week. Assuring me that the suspension would not be mentioned in any valuation. Why do you think they let you off with two weeks suspension? Guilt, man, guilt.”

“Sheriff's in deep?” Nick pulled on the boxer-briefs with one hand, huffing and casting an annoyed glance at his man. He'd brought the ridiculous pair with pink elephant prints. The birthday present from hell, bestowed upon him by his main man. The same dude standing in the doorway, leering at him.

“Cute.” Warrick chuckled evilly. “Oh yes, he's squirming like a rattle-snake.”

“I'll get you for this yet.” Nick eyed the t-shirt; it had Donald Duck and 'Greetings from Disneyland' printed on the front. It was the one his nieces had gotten him three years ago and he'd managed to keep it in the back of his closet until now. He made a mental note to get rid of any possibly ridiculing items in his wardrobe. He was all sweaty when he had maneuvered it on and the gown off, with one arm in the bulky cast. “Lemme guess, there's skirt in there too?” he panted, glaring at the smug man in the doorway.

Warrick smiled with genuine pride and affection. “I told you I'd get you for beating me at NCAA football. Not nice of a man in his sick-bed, I swear you must have done some pretty heavy one-handed training while I was sweating through hearings.”

“Pure skill,” Nick huffed, relieved to find dark blue sweatpants in the bag. “What you say it's called now, Folie-a-trois killers? Where'd that come from?”

Warrick stepped up, shoving Nick's hands away and bent to file the pants over his feet. He kept talking while he helped Nick to his feet, pulled the pants up and pushed him back down before he put on the sneakers and tied them up. Nick felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment while Warrick calmly forwarded information.

“You know the Pintillo guy ratted his buds out, no? Well, Lemarr wanted to have his say and got some reporter to show up. He spun such a wild tale that she got suspicious. Started to look into the history of the dude. Found out all kinds of stuff. Talked to foster-care parents, found out he'd been killing pets as a sport from an early age. That kid is majorly messed up.” Warrick tapped the wheelchair. “Get your ass parked.”

Nick did as told, making an impatient sign for Warrick to continue the tale.

“She started to look into Jeremy's files, talked to his mother and found out he'd tried to enlist but had been turned down due to some flaw in his personality. He was really dependent on his father and his younger brother and despite doing well at school, he really didn't cope in real life. His brother was killed in Iraq two years ago, that seemed to have tipped the scale. He started writing anti-Islamic letters everywhere, under false names. They found the copies in his computer. He wrote about the need to get revenge and how to best get it. While at it, he was convinced that homosexuals were to blame for all evil on earth. Jeremy swallowed it - line, hook and sinker. When Lemarr showed up at the Rehab, he noted the man and knew he'd be easily manipulated. Low self-esteem and a bagful of issues met a man with an agenda. The Pintillo kid had some major hero-worship going on, he'd been with Lemarr at Juvi, turned into a hang-around and was ecstatic over finally being seen, by anybody. Bam! Folie-a-Trois. Press is trying to keep the religious issues low-profile and instead concentrate on the gay angle.”

Warrick swerved for an old man with thick glasses, stepping out of his room to appear right in front of them. He missed him with an inch.

“Whoa! Take it easy, dude! Let's not leave more casualties behind.” Nick threw a warning glance over his shoulder. “Greg says he still suffers emotional trauma from riding shotgun. It's starting to make sense now, just watch out, dammit.”

“You hanging out with Greg now?” Warrick huffed when he maneuvered the wheel-chair to the nurses station. “'Explains why you beat me on the XBox.”

A nurse handed Nick the papers to sign and spared him from coming up with a savvy come-back. He looked through the papers and found no prescriptions. He creased his brow, he was still on antibiotics and pain-killers.

“Oh, don't you worry honey,” the woman smiled at him. “Your partner was kind enough to pop in and get them an hour ago. Isn't that right?”

“I'm a veritable boy-scout.” Warrick replied dryly.

“Now hush,” the nurse smiled. “Go home and take care of each other, I don't wanna see either of you here ever again.” She took the signed documents and handed Warrick the copies. “Now, stay out of trouble the two of you!” She threw them an exaggerated stern look before smiling broadly and waving goodbye with the papers.

“Thank you, Ma'am,” Nick saluted while Warrick took aim for the elevator.

Nick turned to look over his shoulder at the man piloting the wheelchair recklessly. “Of each other?” Nick asked innocently, flapping his lashes at Warrick. “We're outed?”

“The first thing outta your big fat mouth was 'where's Rick'? Atta boy, Nicky!” Warrick grinned and pushed the button to call on the elevator.

“That incriminating now?” Nick pouted.

“Well, the fact that I was signed as your next of kin didn't help matters much. Specially not when the entire Graveyard heard it.” Warrick refused to meet his glare.

“And you didn't explain that? Y'know with the thing about Texas being too far away and all? We had that all worked out, Warr!” Nick groaned and shook his head. Then realization hit and he tilted his head back to look, wide-eyed, at Warrick. . “The whole graveyard knows? Man, Hodges' gotta be in seventh heaven!”

“Nah, only the CSIs. I flirted with the temp receptionist in front of Hodges, just to make a point.” The door opened and Warrick turned the chair fast enough fork Nick to almost lose the grip on the sports bag.

“I bet she went all ga-ga over you,” Nick mumbled, shaking his head.

The door shut and Warrick leaned in over him from behind, placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

“Goin' girly on me, Warr?” Nick tilted his head up, looking at the man hovering over him.

“Five floors is all we got, unless you really wanna go public.” Warrick moved to lean up against the wall, the green eyes amused slits.

Nick smiled. It was good to be back to the normal bickering. He'd missed their verbal clashes something fierce. He missed other things even worse. Feeling that hard body pressed to his, being able to touch the man and feel the flexing muscles and heating skin. And most of all, he missed the most mundane of things; sitting on the couch, fighting over the remote, waking up to the snore and roll over to wake the man up. Pancakes at Olga's and meeting up after shift, just doing normal stuff. Tagging along with Rick to the Youth Center, watching his man shoot hoops and get beat by some kid, twenty year his junior and grinning proudly, despite the merciless taunting he suffered due to his defeat. He looked pensively at the tall man. The sight of him had warmth pooling around his heart.

“Nick,” Warrick spoke quietly and cupped a hand around his neck, squeezing lightly. “Watch it, you're giving me the eyes again.”

“Honey, I'm gonna give so much more,” Nick winked and applied his most syrupy tone. .

“Now, that's over the girly-limit,” Warrick chuckled and rolled him out when the door opened.

“Zip it, old man.”

 

 

Trust Nick to have him take a detour to get some pizza at the drive-thru. Trust him to pout and adopt the puppy-eyed look until Warrick caved. When what he really wanted was to get him home and to bed, to rest and maybe a cautious cuddling session. Not that he'd ever say that out loud, but that had been his plan from the get go. Maybe he'd get rid of the nightmares that had plagued him lately. Having Nick warm and breathing to spoon might very well have him stop running up and down a slope with a shovel in his hand. Either trying to dig Nick up or chasing someone wanting to throttle him. His hands always soiled with Nick's blood as he dug and dug and dug. The nightmares had all gotten a very sinister angle. He'd have to ween himself off the sleeping pills that Dr. Lee had sent home with him. He'd embraced them, whole-heartedly after the first night when he'd dreamed he'd turned Nick's head and been left with it in his hands. The sensation of the cool skin so true to life.

 

Only a drug-induced, close to comatose, sleep had stopped the fucking movie in his head. Only to leave him sluggish and slow, the next day. Even Brass had noticed the bags under his eyes at the hearing. Nick had said nothing, only told him to go home and get some sleep. Warrick hadn't had the heart to tell him that it was sleeping that was exhausting.

They drive in pensive silence until Nick sighed and looked at him from the side.

“Rick, I – I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I was gonna do. Y'know that don't you? I didn't want you in the mess and all the same I forced you to kill a man. You shouldn't have to always look out for my ass like that. Man, I dunno what to say. I just hope it won't ever happen again. “

Warrick looked at the man, the face drawn and serious. “What you yappin' about? He tried to kill you!”

“I made him do that. I forced him to take action when I went for him.” Nick paused, looking out the side window. “You know, I knew something was wrong.”

“Huh?”

“It was like he hesitated. I just didn't get why? He could have shot me in the back and I'd never have known it was coming. He was just a few feet from me and did nothing. I expected him to put a plug in me. Since I was too heavy for him to crucify all on his own.”

“Nick,” Warrick groaned.

“A man that takes pleasure in crucifying kids, wouldn't hesitate that much. He just stood there, kinda looking at me, y'know. If I hadn't moved on him, all might have ended differently.”

“Nick!”

“It wasn't him that was the instigating one, Rick! He was really only the collaborator, that's why he hesitated. Lemarr was the one that pulled the strings. Makes sense now. I kinda killed him, y'know. You might have pulled the trigger, but I caused it.”

“Nick, fuck!”

“What?” Innocent eyes turned Warrick's way.

“That's the kind of questions you never ask, man. Never, ya hear? Those are the whys you just leave alone.” His voice came out in a sharp exhale, sounding like a bark. “He shot you, he would have killed an unarmed man and you don't sit and wait for that to happen. Don't go second guessing yourself. That'll kill you for sure.”

Nick watched him, perplexed. “S'sorry, Rick. I didn't mean to --”

“I know you didn't,” Warrick interrupted. “But fuck, Nick. Stop twisting the knife.”

“Sorry! ” The man settled to look out the window again. But there was so much unspoken between them, and Warrick had no idea where to begin.

Warrick threw a glance at the man. “Nick, this case – what was it that had you risk your career and life? What exactly was it that had you go solo to save that kid?”

“I dunno. Guess it was because the victims seemed to be picked totally at random at first. I mean, you walk down the street and bam! You're suddenly in hell. And you just can't understand what you did to end up like that. I kept thinking about them kids, never seeing it coming and waiting there to slowly die.” Nick shrugged, smiling disarmingly at him. “It wasn't until Griss told me that punk Lemarr knew the first kid from Juvi, that the pieces started to make sense. That first victim was the thing that started it all. It was too easy to kill, Lemarr got the kick of his life and the other two went along, ridding the world of trash, like Pinchillo put it. They felt justified because it was easy. It's sick but it's understandable. The next step was obvious; Lemarr knew where to look to find the victims. The ones that fit Jeremy's rage and hatred and his own twisted mind. He has a gay brother y'know. One that's doing really well.”

Warrick felt all the pieces fall into place at once. “And nobody was there to warn or save them.”

“Yeah, well not like that exactly but -.” Nick diverted his eyes back to the street, wiping his nose self-consciously.

“Greg's right,” Warrick shook his head. “Survivor's guilt. Damned! That's what's up your ass, man. And you're so gonna see a shrink.”

“Huh?” Nick turned to him, brow creased. “What you getting at, man? This has nothing to do with anything. It was a case, that's all. Maybe I got in too deep, won't happen again. Ai'ght? I'm not your responsibility Warrick, and you ain't makin' me go see some freakin' shrink.”

Warrick snorted. “It has everything to do with you getting alive out of that box. Fuck, Nicky, how's it possible that you can see these things in others and be so damned blind when it comes to yourself? It's not the first time you do this, remember? Pixote ring a bell? You don't owe anybody anything for being saved, Nick. You did that all on your own. By simply hanging on until we found you. There's not some kind of life-long obligation to go out of your way and risk your fucking life!”

“Shut up man! Obligation? You talkin' 'bout yourself watching out for my ass or what? Told you, I can take care of myself. I'm not your responsibility, damnit!”

“That's rich comin' from you, bro. Remember the speech you gave me the first time you dragged me out of that casino? I distinctly remember telling you exactly the same, that I wasn't your responsibility. Did that stop you? Hell no, as I recall you drove me straight home and sat on watch on the couch for three days. Making me play that stupid game of yours and feeding me that god-awful Cajun casserole.”

“That's diff'rent,” Nick muttered. “Your career was on the line, man. Someone had to smack some sense into yah.”

“Different because you got to be the hero?” Warrick took the left turn to the drive-thru.  
“What you don't get, man, is that I'd rather been in the box or on that slope myself instead of watching you go through it. Don't you fucking get that?”

He pulled up at the drive-thru and ordered ten slices with different toppings and a six-pack of light beer. All the while he imagined Nick sitting on the slope, waiting to be slugged. His hand shook when he payed and Nick noticed. His eyes narrowed with concern and his creases deepened. But he said nothing.

When Warrick dumped the boxes in Nick's lap and pulled out, he felt sweat breaking out on his temple. He changed to the fast lane and drove in silence. Nick moved uneasily in his seat. Holding the hot box away from his lap.

“M'sorry Rick, I'm just so damned tired of being the victim all the time. I know I put you through hell, I wish I'd looked out and not gotten into all the shit, man.” Nick mumbled, looking down at the box in his hands. “Can't we just – kinda forget this ever happened?”

“Coz being the victim is a sign of weakness? You're delusional, Stokes. I don't give a fuck about you not wanting me to take responsibility, I'll do it all the same. Just like you do when I'm tripping. This is not a one-way street, Nicky. You don't always get to be the hero. If you get your fat ass into trouble, you really think I'm gonna sit around and watch?”

“I know, I know. M'sorry, can we drop this now? I just wanna get home.”

Warrick gritted his teeth, knowing that he was far from done yet, but Nick was clamming up and that was the sign to back off. There was a limit to how much he could push Nick, and he'd obviously just reached it. It hadn't been his intention to get his lover out of the hospital just to chew him a new one anyhow. He continued in silence, keeping his eyes on the street and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. Nick just sat there, shifting the hot box from one thigh to another.

“You lied, didn't you?” Warrick finally had to ask.

“Wha-?”

“Marjorie, she only got probation, a slap on the wrist, after bashing your skull in. You said you reached for the gun, didn't you? Why the fuck would you do that?”

Nick looked out the windshield. Tapping his fingers against the box. “No, I didn't, I really don't remember but small snippets of everything. And I would probably have done the same, bro. You really think she was thinking straight? It was dark, she probably didn't recognize me. A dead man was lying on the bank of the stream and I was reaching for my gun. She freaked.”

“Except you weren't reaching for it, you were pushing it away. The priest said so himself.”

Nick shrugged, looking down on the box in his lap. “I was kinda outta it, y'know.”

They continued in silence until he pulled up at Nick's house. When Nick's hand moved to open the door Warrick stopped him. “That's the one thing I don't get about you. She nearly killed you. Do you really feel the need to go and die on me to repay for the fucking fact that you were strong enough to pull it through? How many payments are there yet to come before you feel you're even? Will there ever be enough?”

Nick looked at him, wide-eyed. “Rick, chill. It just felt, I dunno – unnecessary. Why destroy another life? Don't cha think there were enough casualties already?”

Warrick said nothing, just looked at the man by his side. He shook his head and got out of the car, flinging the empty sports bag over his shoulder and gripping the six-pack before he walked over and helped Nick with the door. He didn't comment on Nick's slow pace up the stairs, or the sigh as they reached the door. He just opened it and stepped back to let the man inside. Toeing off his shoes, Warrick let the bag fall to the linoleum and followed Nick into the kitchen. Depositing the six-pack on the table he walked up to Nick, who was standing with his back to him, putting the box of pizza slices on the counter. Warrick wrapped his arms around Nick's middle, careful not to jar the ribs and the cast. Nick leaned the back of his head on Warrick's shoulder, tilting his head to look at him when he melted into his hold. The deep brown darker in the shadows, the relief evident. Nick was home.

He buried his face in the crook of the neck. Taking a minute to breathe his man in. Pulling him flush to his own body. Like wanting to shield him with it. A calm washed over him, an almost religious sensation, like a blessing. Nick was home, as stubborn and opinionated as ever, soft and hard in an intricate pattern that always managed to surprise Warrick. Always letting him see something new, pure and unexpected. Until he looked deeper and found that it had always been in the cards, the hand was just being played in a very unorthodox manner, by a supposedly, very common man. That always threw him.

“You're always gonna be like this, ain't you? Driving me fucking nuts 'coz I'll never be able to totally figure you out.”

“Huh?” Nick shifted his face to the side, looking perfectly innocent when questioning eyes locked with his. “Rick, did it ever occur to you that maybe you're the one paying off some imaginary debt? Rick, I flipped the coin, let it go!”

Warrick felt totally exposed, left to stare at the man in his hold. Damn him to rock the boat and pull out the unexpected cards. When did Nick Stokes get this deep into his head? Warrick closed his eyes and pulled his man closer, pressing his cheek to the shorter man's. “Grams was right you know, all her speeches about love and stuff. She was so right. I wish I could tell her I've come to realize that. When it gets you, it gets you good. And it's damned ugly and painful at times, y'know.”

“She knows, Warr. She had your black proud ass figured out long before you even realized. She saw right through everyone, she just knew.” Nick moved away enough to smile at him.

“Black proud ass? She told you about that?” Warrick laughed.

“She told me a lotta things, Rick. Because she knew from the get go. And I knew that she knew, we were just both waiting for you to figure things out. Took you long enough, dumb-ass.” Nick's eyes dropped and the ears took on a slight pink tint. Embarrassed, he turned to bury his face in the crook of Warrick's neck.

“I fucking love you, baldy.” Warrick purred.

“I know,” Nick replied quietly, leaning back on him with a contented sigh. His good arm reaching around Warrick in a backward hug. “I've loved your proud black ass for a long time. Grams knew that too.”

“Chick moment,” Warrick murmured to the pinkish earlobe. Voice suddenly hoarse and raw.

Nick laughed softly against his neck.


End file.
